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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 







THE OWLS^ HOUSE 








THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


BY 

CROSBIE GARSTIN 

Author of 

“The Ballad of the Royal Ann/* 
“The Coasts of Romance,’* 
etc. 



I 


NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MCMXXIV 







Copyright^ 1923, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 

All rights reserved 


‘WN 18 1924 


Printed in the United States of America 

©ClA7Ge7D5 

I 



THE OWLS’ HOUSE 





THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


CHAPTER I 

I T was late evening when John Penhale left the 
Helston lawyer’s office. A fine drizzle was 
blowing down Coinage Hall Street; thin beams 
of light pierced the chinks of house shutters and 
curtains, barred the blue dusk with misty orange 
rays, touched the street puddles with alchemic lin¬ 
gers, turning them to gold. A chaise clattered up¬ 
hill, the horses’ steam hanging round them in a kind 
of lamp-lit nimbus, the post-boy’s head bent against 
the rain. 

Outside an inn an old soldier with a wooden leg 
and very drunk stood wailing a street ballad, both 
eyes shut, impervious to the fact that his audience 
had long since left him. Penhale turned into “The 
Angel,” went on straight into the dining-room and 
sat down in the far corner with the right side of his 
face to the wall. He did so from habit. A trio 
of squireens in mud-bespattered riding coats sat near 
the door and made considerable noise. They had 
been hare hunting and were rosy with sharp air 
and hard riding. They greeted every appearance 
of the ripe serving maid with loud whoops and 


2 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

passed her from arm to arm. She protested and 
giggled. Opposite them a local shop-keeper was 
entertaining a creditor from Plymouth to the best 
bottle the town afforded. The company was made 
up by a very young ensign of Light Dragoons bound 
to Winchester to join his regiment for the first 
time, painfully self-conscious and aloof, in his new 
scarlet. Penhale beat on the table with his knife. 
The maid escaped from the festive sportsmen and 
brought him a plate of boiled beef and onions. As 
she was about to set the plate before him one of 
the hare hunters lost his balance and fell to the 
ground with a loud crash of his chair and a yell 
of delight from his companions. 

The noise caused Penhale to turn his head. The 
girl emitted an “ach” of horror, dropped the plate 
on the table and recoiled as though some one had 
struck her. Penhale pulled the plate towards him, 
picked up his knife and fork and quietly began to 
eat. He was quite used to these displays. The girl 
backed away, staring in a sort of dreadful fascina¬ 
tion. A squireen caught at her wrist calling her 
his “sweet slut,” but she wrenched herself free and 
ran out of the door. 

She did not come near Penhale again; the tapster 
brought him the rest of his meal. Penhale went 
on eating, outwardly unmoved; he had been subject 
to these outbursts, off and on, for eighteen years. 

Eighteen years previously myriads of birds had 
been driven south by the hard winter upcountry. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


3 


One early morning, after a particularly bitter snap, 
a hind had run in to say that the pond on Pol- 
menna Downs, above the farm, was covered with 
wild duck. Penhale took an old flintlock fowling 
piece of his father’s which had been hanging neg¬ 
lected over the fireplace for years, and made for 
Polmenna, loading as he went. 

As the hind had said, the pool was covered with 
duck. Penhale crouched under cover of some wil¬ 
lows, brought the five-foot gun to his shoulder, and 
blazed into the brown. 

An hour later a fisherman setting rabbit snares 
in a hedge above the Luddra saw what he described 
as “a red man” fighting through the scrub and 
bramble that fringed the cliff. It was John Penhale; 
the gun had exploded, blowing half his face away. 
Penhale had no intention of throwing himself over 
the Luddra, he was blind with blood and pain. The 
fisherman led him home with difficulty, and then, 
being of a practical mind, returned to the pond to 
pick up the duck. 

An old crone who had the reputation of being a 
“white witch” was summoned to Bosnia and man¬ 
aged to stop the bleeding by means of incantations, 
cobwebs and dung—principally dung. The hind was 
sent on horseback to Penzance to fetch Doctor 
Spargo. 

Doctor Spargo had been making a night of it 
with his friend the Collector of Customs and a stray 
ship captain who was peculiarly gifted in the brew- 


4 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ing of rum toddies. The doctor was put to bed at 
dawn by his household staff, and when he was 
knocked up again at eleven he was not the best 
pleased. He bade his housekeeper tell the Bosula 
messenger that he was out—called out to a confine¬ 
ment in Morvah parish and was not expected back 
till evening—and turned over on his pillow. 

The housekeeper returned, agitated, to say that 
the messenger refused to move. He knew the doc¬ 
tor was in, he said; the groom had told him so. 
Furthermore if Spargo did not come to his master’s 
assistance without further ado he would smash every 
bone in his body. Doctor Spargo rolled out of bed, 
and opening the window treated the messenger to 
samples from a vocabulary enriched by a decade of 
army life. The messenger listened to the tirade 
unmoved and, as Doctor Spargo cursed, it was borne 
in on him that he had seen this outrageous fellow 
before. Presently he remembered when; he had 
seen him at Gwithian Feast, a canvas jacket on, 
tossing parish stalwarts as a terrier tosses rats. 
The messenger was Bohenna, the wrestler. Doctor 
Spargo closed both the tirade and the window ab¬ 
ruptly and bawled for his boots. 

The pair rode westwards, the truculent hind can¬ 
tering on the heels of the physician’s cob, laying 
into it with an ash plant whenever it showed symp¬ 
toms of flagging. The cob tripped over a stone in 
Bucca’s Pass and shied at a goat near Trewoofe, 
on each occasion putting its master neatly over its 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


5 


head. By the time Spargo arrived at Bosula he 
was shaking worse than ever. He demanded more 
rum to steady his hand, but there was none. He 
pulled himself together as best he could and set to 
work, trembling and wheezing. 

Spargo was a retired army surgeon; he had served 
his apprenticeship in the shambles of Oudenarde 
and Malplaquet among soldiers who had no option 
but to submit to his ministrations. His idea was 
to patch men up so that they might fight another 
day, but without regard to their appearance. He 
sewed the tatters of John Penhale’s face together 
securely but roughly, pocketed his fee and rode 
home, gasping, to his toddies. 

John Penhale was of line frame and hearty. In 
a week or two he was out and about; in a month 
he had resumed the full business of the farm, but 
his face was not a pleasant sight. The left side 
was merely marked with a silvery burn on the cheek 
bone, but the right might have been dragged by a 
harrow; it was ragged scars from brow to chin. 
The eye had gone and part of an ear, the broken 
jaw had set concave and his cheek had split into 
a long harelip, revealing a perpetual snarl of teeth 
underneath. He hid the eye socket with a black 
patch, but the lower part of his face he could not 
mask. 

Three months after his accident he rode into Pen¬ 
zance market. If one woman squeaked at the sight 
of him so did a dozen, and children ran to their 


6 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


mothers blubbering that the devil had come for 
them. Even the men, though sympathetic, would 
not look him in the face, but stared at their boots 
while they talked and were plainly relieved when 
he moved away. John never went in again, unless 
driven by the direst necessity, and then hurried out 
the moment his affairs were transacted. For despite 
his bulk and stoic bearing he was supersensitive, and 
the horror his appearance awoke cut him to the raw. 
Thus at the age of twenty-three he became a bitter 
recluse, a prisoner within the bounds of his farm, 
Bosnia, cared for by a widow and her idiot daugh¬ 
ter, mixing only with his few hinds and odd farmers 
and fishermen that chance drove his way. 

He had come to Helston on business, to hear the 
terms of his Aunt Selina’s will, and now that he 
had heard them he was eager to be quit of the 
place. The serving girl’s behavior had stung him 
like a whip lash and the brawling of the drunken 
squires jarred on his every nerve. He could have 
tossed the three of them out of the window if he 
liked, but he quailed at the thought of their possible 
mockery. They put their heads together and whis¬ 
pered, hiccoughing and sniggering. They were, as 
a fact, planning a descent on a certain lady in Pigs 
Street, but John Penhale was convinced that they 
were laughing at him. The baby ensign had a de¬ 
risive curl in his lip, John was sure ... he could 
feel the two shop-keepers’ eyes turned his way . . . 
it was unbearable. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


7 


Sneers, jeers, laughter ... he hated them all, 
everybody. He would get out, go home to Bosula, 
to sanctuary. He had a sudden longing for Bosula, 
still and lonely among the folding hills ... his 
own place. He drank off his ale, paid the score 
and went out to see what the weather was like. 

The wind had chopped around easterly and the 
rain had stopped. The moon was up breasting 
through flying ridges of cloud like a naked white 
swimmer in the run of surf. Penhale found an 
ostler asleep on a pile of straw, roused him and 
told him to saddle his horse, mounted and rode 
westwards out of town. 

He passed a lone pedestrian near Antron and a 
string of pack horses under Breage Church, but for 
the rest he had the road to himself. He ambled 
gently, considering the terms of his aunt’s will. She 
had left him her strong farm of Tregors, in the 
Kerrier Hundred, lock, stock and barrel, on the 
one condition that he married within twelve months. 
In default of his marrying it was to pass to her 
late husband’s cousin, Carveth Donnithorne, ship 
chandler of Falmouth. 

John Penhale paid silent tribute to his aunt’s 
cleverness. She disliked the smug and infallible 
Donnithorne intensely, and in making him her next 
heir had passed over four nearer connections with 
whom she was on good terms. Her reasons for this 
curious conduct were that she was a Penhale by birth 
with intense family pride and John was the last of 


8 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


her line. A trivial dispute between John and Car- 
veth over a coursing match she had fostered with 
all the cunning that was in her till the men’s dislike 
of each other amounted to plain hatred. She knew 
John would do anything in his power to keep Don- 
nithorne out of the Tregors’ rents. She would 
drive him into matrimony, and then, with reasonable 
luck, the line would go on and Penhales rule at 
Bosula forever and ever. 

John laughed grimly at the thought of his aunt 
—sly old devil! She had married and left home 
before he was born, and he had not seen her a 
score of times in his life, but she was a vivid mem¬ 
ory. He could see her now riding into Bosula, a-pil- 
lion behind one of her farm hands, her cold blue 
eyes taking in every detail of the yard, and hear 
her first words of greeting to her brother after a 
year’s separation. 

“Jan, thou mazed fool, the trash wants cutting 
back down to Long meadow, and there’s a cow 
coughing—bring her in to once and I’ll physick her.” 

The cow came in at once; everybody obeyed 
Selina without question or delay both at Bosula and 
Tregors. Her husband, Jabez Donnithorne, was 
the merest cipher whose existence she barely ac¬ 
knowledged. 

On one occasion Jabez, returning very drunk from 
Helston market, having neglected to buy the heifers 
he was sent after, Selina personally chastised him 
with a broom handle and bolted him in the pig-sty 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


9 


for the night, where he was overlaid by a sow and 
suffered many indignities. That cured Jabez. 

Selina never stopped long at Bosnia—three days 
at the most—but in that time she would have in¬ 
spected the place from bound to bound, set every¬ 
body to rights, and dictated the policy of the farm 
for twelve months to come. As she had ruled her 
brother in boyhood she ruled him to the day of his 
death. She was fond of him, but only because he 
was head of the family. His wife she looked on 
merely as a machine for producing male Penhales. 
She would see to it that on her death Tregors fell 
to her family, arid then, doubly endowed, the Pen¬ 
hales of Bosnia would be squires and gentlefolk in 
the land. 

When, after many years, John remained the only 
child, Selina bit back her disappointment and con¬ 
centrated on the boy. She insisted on his being sent 
to Helston Grammar School, paid half the cost of 
his education, kept him in plentiful pocket money 
and saw that his clothes were of the best. He 
was a handsome, upstanding lad and did her credit. 
She was more than satisfied; he would go far, she 
told herself; make a great match. Then came 
John’s accident. Selina made no move until he was 
out and about again, and then rode over to assess 
the damage. She stalked suddenly into the kitchen 
one morning, surveyed the ruins of her nephew’s 
comely face, outwardly unmoved, and then stalked 
out again without a word of consolation or regret, 


10 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

barked instructions that her horse was to be baited 
and ready in two hours and turned up the hill. 

Up the hill she strode, over Polmenna Downs and 
on to that haunt of her girlhood, the Luddra Head. 
Perched high on its stone brows, the west wind in 
her cloak and hair, she stared, rigid and unseeing, 
over the glitter of the Channel. She was back in 
the two hours, but her eyelids were red—for the last 
time in her life Selina had been crying. 

She slept at the Angel at Helston that night, 
visited a certain disreputable attorney next morning 
and left his office with the Tregellas mortgage in her 
pocket. 

Mr. Hugh Tregellas of Tregellas had four 
daughters and a mania for gambling. He did not 
fling his substance away on horse-racing, cock or 
man fights—indeed he lifted up his voice loudly 
against the immorality of these pursuits—he took 
shares in companies formed to extract gold from 
sea water, in expeditions to discover the kingdom 
of Prester John, and such like. Any rogue with 
an oiled tongue and a project sufficiently prepos¬ 
terous could win a hearing from the Squire. But 
though much money went out few ships came home, 
and the four Miss Tregellases sat in the parlor, 
their dowries dwindling to nothing, and waited for 
the suitors who did not come. 

All this was well known to their neighbor, 
Selina Donnithorne. She knew that when the four 
Miss Tregellases were not in the parlor playing 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


11 


at ladies they were down on their knee bones scrub¬ 
bing floors. She even had it on sound authority 
that the two youngest forked out the cow-byre every 
morning. 

She called on the Squire one afternoon, going to 
Tregellas in state, dressed in her best, and driving 
in a cabriolet she had purchased dirt cheap from a 
broken-down roisterer at Bodmin Assizes. She saw 
Mr. Tregellas in his gunless gun-room and came 
to the point at once. She wanted his youngest 
daughter for John Penhale. Mr. Tregellas flushed 
with anger and opened his mouth to reply, but 
Selina gave him no opportunity. Her nephew was 
already a man of moderate means, she said, living 
on his own good farm in the Penwith Hundred, with 
an income of nearly one hundred pounds per annum 
into the bargain. When she died he would have 
Tregors also. He was well educated, a fine figure 
of a man and sound in wind and limb, if a trifle 
cut about one side of the face—one side only— 
but then, after all these wars, who was not? 

Here Mr. Tregellas managed to interpose a splut¬ 
tering refusal. Selina nodded amiably. She ven¬ 
tured to remind Mr. Tregellas that since Arethu- 
sina’s dowry had sunk off Cape St. Vincent with the 
Fowey privateer, God*s Providence, her chances of 
a distinguished marriage were negligible—also that 
she, Selina, was now mortgagee of Tregellas and 
the mortgage fell due at Michaelmas. 

Mr. Tregellas was a gambler. As long as there 


12 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


was one chance left to him, no matter how long, 
the future was radiant. He laughed at Selina. He 
had large interests in a company for trading with 
the King of certain South Sea atolls, he said, the 
lagoons of which were paved with pearl. It had 
been estimated that this enterprise could not fail 
to enrich him at a rate of less than eleven hundred 
and fifty-three per centum. A ship bearing the first 
fruits was expected in Bristol almost any day now, 
was in fact overdue, but these nor’-easterly head 
winds . . . Mr. Tregellas saw Selina to the door, 
his good humor restored, promising her that long 
before Michaelmas he would not only be paying 
off the mortgage on Tregellas, but offering her a 
price for Tregors as well. 

Selina rocked home in her cabriolet no whit per¬ 
turbed by the Squire’s optimism. Nor’-easterly head 
winds, indeed! . . . 

Three months from that date Mr. Tregellas re¬ 
turned the call. Selina was feeding ducks in the 
yard when he came. She emptied her apron, led 
the Squire into the kitchen and gave him a glass of 
cowslip wine—which he needed. 

“Come to offer me a price for Tregors?” she 
asked. 

The old gambler blinked his weak eyes pathet¬ 
ically, like a child blinking back tears, and buried 
his face in his hands. Selina did not twit him fur¬ 
ther. There was no need. She had him where she 
wanted him. She smiled to herself. So the pearl 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


13 


ship had gone the deep road of the Fowey privateer 
—and all the other ventures. She clicked her 
tongue, “Tchuc—tchuc!” and offered him another 
glass of wine. 

“I’ll send for John Penhale to-morrow,” said she. 
“I’ll tell him that if he don’t take your maid he 
shan’t have Tregors. You tell your maid if she 
don’t take my John I’ll put you all out on the road 
come Michaelmas. Now get along wid ’ee.” 

Arethusina came over to Tregors to pay Mrs. 
Donnithorne a week’s visit, and John was angled 
from his retreat by the bait of a roan colt he had 
long coveted and which his aunt suddenly expressed 
herself willing to sell. 

The sun was down when he reached the farm; 
Selina met him in the yard, and leading him swiftly 
into the stables explained the lay of the land while 
he unsaddled his horse, but she did not tell him 
what pressure had been brought to bear on the 
youngest Miss Tregellas. 

John was amazed and delighted. Mr. Hugh 
Tregellas’ daughter willing to marry him, a com¬ 
mon farmer! Pretty too; he had seen her once, 
before his accident, sitting in the family pew in 
Cury church—plump, fluffy little thing with round 
blue eyes, like a kitten. This was incredible luck! 

He was young then and hot-blooded, sick of the 
loneliness of Bosnia and the haphazard ministra¬ 
tions of the two slatterns. He was for dashing into 
the house and starting his love-making there and 


14 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


then, but Selina held him, haggling like a fish wife 
over the price of the roan. When he at length got 
away from her it was thick dusk. It was dark in 
the kitchen, except for the feeble glow of the turf 
fire, Selina explaining that she had unaccountably 
run out of tallow dips—the boy should fetch some 
from Helston on the morrow. 

Arethusina came downstairs dressed in her eldest 
sister’s bombazine dress, borrowed for the occasion. 
She was not embarrassed; she, like John, was eager 
for change, weary of the threadbare existence and 
unending struggle at home, of watching her sisters 
grow warped and bitter. She saw ahead, saw four 
gray old women, dried kernels rattling in the echo¬ 
ing shell of Tregellas House, never speaking, hat¬ 
ing each other and all things, doddering on to the 
blank end, four gray nuns cloistered by granite pride. 
Anything were better than that. She would sob 
off to sleep swearing to take any chance rather than 
come to that, and here was a chance. John Pen- 
hale stood for life full and flowing in place of want 
and decay. He might only be a yeoman, but he 
would have two big farms and could keep her in 
comfort. She would have children, she hoped, silk 
dresses and a little lap dog. Some day she might 
even visit London. 

She entered the kitchen in good heart and saw 
John standing before the fire, a vague but imposing 
silhouette. A fine figure of a man, she thought, and 
her heart lifted still higher. She dropped him a 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


15 

mischievous curtsey. He took her hand, laughing, 
a deep, pleasant laugh. They sat on the settle at 
the back of the kitchen and got on famously. 

John had barely spoken to any sort of woman 
for a year, leave alone a pretty woman; he thought 
her wonderful. Arethusina had not seen a present¬ 
able man for double that period; all her stored 
coquetry bubbled out. John was only twenty-four, 
the girl but nineteen; they were like two starved 
children sitting down to a square meal. 

The brass-studded grandfather clock tick-tocked, 
in its corner; the yellow house cat lay crouched on 
the hearth watching the furze kindling for mice; 
Selina nodded in her rocker before the fire, sub¬ 
consciously keeping time with the beats of the clock. 
A whinny of treble laughter came from the settle, 
followed by John’s rumbling bass, then whisperings. 

Selina beamed at her vis-a-vis, the yellow cat. 
She was elated at the success of her plans. It had 
been a good idea to let the girl get to know John 
before she could see him. The blow would be soft¬ 
ened when morning came. In Selina’s experience 
obstacles that appeared insurmountable at night 
dwindled to nothing in the morning light; one came 
at them with a fresh heart. She was pleased with 
Arethusina. The girl was healthy, practical and 
ambitious—^^above all, ambitious. She might not be 
able to do much with John, marred as he was, but 
their children would get all the advantages of the 
mother’s birth, Selina was sure. The chariot of 


16 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the Penhales would roll onwards, steered by small, 
strong hands. 

She glanced triumphantly at the pair on the settle 
and curled her thin lips. Then she rose quietly and 
slipped off to bed. The yellow cat remained, wait¬ 
ing its prey. Arethusina and John did not notice 
Selina’s departure, they were engrossed in each 
other. The girl had the farmer at her finger ends 
and enjoyed the experience; she played on his senses 
as on a keyboard. He loomed above her on the 
settle, big, eager, boyish, with a passionate break 
in his laughter. She kept him guessing, yielded and 
retreated in turn, thrilled to feel how easily he re¬ 
sponded to her flying moods. What simpletons men 
were!—and what fun! 

John shifted nearer up the settle, his great hot 
hand closed timorously over hers; she snatched it 
free and drew herself up. 

“La! sir, you forget yourself, I think. I will 
beg you to remember I am none of your farm 
wenches I I—I . . .” She shook with indignation. 

John trembled; he had offended, lost her. . . . 
O fool I He tried to apologize and stuttered ridicu¬ 
lously. He had lost her! The prospect of facing 
a lifetime without this delectable creature, on whom 
he had not bestowed a moment’s thought three 
hours before, suddenly became Intolerable. He bit 
his nails with rage at his Impetuosity. So close be¬ 
side him, yet gone forever 1 Had she gone already? 
Melted into air? ... A dream after all? He 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


17 


glanced sideways. No, she was still there; he could 
see the dim pallor of her face and neck against the 
darkness, the folds of the bombazine dress billow¬ 
ing out over the edge of the settle like a great 
flower. 

A faint sweet waft of perfume touched his nos¬ 
trils. Something stirred beside him; he looked 
down. Her hand . . . her hand was creeping back 
up the settle towards him! He heard a sound and 
looked up again; she was crying! . . . Stay, was 
she crying? No, by the Lord in heaven she was 
not; she was laughing! In a flash he was on his 
feet, had crushed her in his arms, as though to grasp 
the dear dream before it could fade, and hold it 
to him forever. He showered kisses on her mouth, 
throat, forehead—anywhere. She did not resist, but 
turned her soft face up to his, laughing still. 
Tregors and Bosnia were safe, safe for both of them 
and all time. 

At that moment the yellow cat sprang, and in 
so doing toppled a clump of furze kindling over 
the embers. The dry bush caught and flared, roar¬ 
ing, up the chimney. The kitchen turned in a sec¬ 
ond from black to red, and John felt the youngest 
Miss Tregellas go suddenly rigid in his arms, her 
blue eyes stared at him big with horror, her full 
lips were drawn tight and colorless across her 
clenched teeth. He kissed her once more, but it 
was like kissing the dead. 

Then she came to life, struggled frantically, bat- 


18 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


tered at his mouth with both fists, giving little “Oh! 
Ohs!” like a trapped animal mad with pain. He let 
her go, amazed. 

She fled across the kitchen, crashing against the 
table in her blind hurry, whipped round, stared at 
him again and then ran upstairs, panting and sob¬ 
bing. He heard the bolt of her door click, and then 
noises as though she was piling furniture against it. 

John turned about, still amazed, and jumped back 
startled. Who was that? . . . that ghoul’s mask 
lit by flickers of red flame, snarling across the room? 
Then he remembered it was himself of course, him¬ 
self in the old round mirror. After his accident 
he had smashed every looking-glass at home and had 
forgotten what he looked like. . . . During the 
few hours of fool’s paradise he had forgotten about 
his face altogether . . . supposed the girl knew^ 
. . . had been told. The fatal furze bush burnt 
out, leaving him in merciful darkness. 

John opened the door, stumbled across to the 
stable, saddled his horse and, riding hard, was at 
Bosnia with dawn. 

When the farm girl went to call Arethusina next 
morning she found the room empty and the bed 
had not been slept in. Selina sent to the Squire 
at once, but the youngest Miss Tregellas had not 
returned. They discovered her eventually in an old 
rab pit halfway between the two houses, her neck 
broken; she had fallen over the edge in the dark. It 
was supposed she was trying to find her way home. 


CHAPTER II 


S INCE that night, seventeen years before, John 
Penhale had done no love-making nor had he 
again visited Tregors. The Tregellas affair 
had broken his nerve, but it had not impaired that 
of his aunt in the slightest degree, and he was fright¬ 
ened of her, being assured that, did he give her a 
chance, she would try again. 

And now the old lady was dead, and in dying had 
tried again. John pictured her casting her final 
noose sitting up, gaunt and tall, in her four-poster 
bed dictating her last will and testament to the 
Helston attorney, awed farm hands waiting to 
affix their marks, sunset staining the west window 
and the black bull roaring in the yard below. And 
it was a shrewd cast she had made; John could feel 
its toils tightening about him. He had always been 
given to understand that Tregors was as good as 
his, and now it was as good as Carveth Donni- 
thorne’s—Carveth Donnithorne! John gritted his 
teeth at the thought of the suave and ever pros¬ 
pering ship chandler. Tregors had always been a 
strong farm, but in the last seventeen years Selina 
had increased the acreage by a third, by one hundred 
acres of sweet upland grazing lopped from the Tre¬ 
gellas estate. There were new buildings too, built 


20 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of moor granite to stand forever, and the stock 
was without match locally. John’s yeoman heart 
yearned to it. Oh, the clever old woman! John 
pictured Carveth Donnithorne taking possession, 
Carveth Donnithorne with his condescending airs, 
patronizing wife and school of chubby little boys. 
Had not Carveth goods enough in this world but 
that he must have Tregors as well? 

John swore he should not have Tregors as well, 
not if he could stop it. How could he stop it? 
He puzzled his wits, but returned inevitably to the 
one answer he was trying to evade, “Marry within 
twelve months! Marry within twelve months!” 
His aunt had made a sure throw, he admitted with 
grim admiration, the cunning old devil! It was all 
very well saying “marry,” but who would marry a 
man that even the rough fisher girls avoided and 
children hid from? He would have no more force 
or subterfuge. If any woman consented to marry 
him it must be in full knowledge of what she was 
doing and of her own free will. There should be 
no repetition of that night seventeen years before. 
He shuddered. “No, by the Lord, no more of 
that; rather let Tregors go to Carveth.” 

In imagination he saw the Squire’s daughter as he 
was always seeing her in the dark nights when he 
was alone, stricken numb in his arms, glazed horror 
in her eyes—saw her running across the blind coun¬ 
try, sobbing, panting, stumbling in furrows, torn by 
brambles, trying to get home, away from him—the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


21 


Terror. He shut his eyes, as though to shut out 
the vision, and rode on past Germoe to Kenneggy 
Downs. 

The moon was flying through clouds like a circus 
girl through hoops, the road was swept by winged 
shadows. Puddles seemed to brim with milk at 
one moment, ink the next. At one moment the sur¬ 
rounding country was visible, a-gleam as with hoar 
frost, and then was blotted out in darkness; it was 
a night of complete and startling transformations. 
The shadow of a bare oak leapt upon them sud¬ 
denly, flinging unsubstantial arms at man and horse 
as though to grasp them, a phantom octopus. Pen- 
hale’s mare shied, nearly unseating him. He came 
out of his somber thoughts, kicked spurs into her 
and drove her on at a smart trot. She swung for¬ 
ward, trembling and uneasy, nostrils swelling, ears 
twitching, as though she sensed uncanny presences 
abroad. They reached the high ground above Per- 
ranuthnoe, waste, gorse-covered downs. To the 
south the great indent of Mount’s Bay gloomed and 
glittered under cloud and moonshine; westward 
Paul Hill rose like a wall, a galaxy of ships’ riding 
lights pricking the shadow at its base. The track 
began to drop downhill, the moors gave over to 
fields with high banks. An old pack horse track, 
choked with undergrowth, broke into the road from 
the seaward side. The mare cocked her ears to¬ 
wards it, snorted and checked. Penhale laid into 
her with his whip. She bounded forward and shied 


22 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


again, but with such violence this time that John 
came out of the saddle altogether. He saw a 
shadow rush across the road, heard something 
thwack on the mare’s rump as she swerved from 
under him, and he fell, not on the road as he ex¬ 
pected, but on top of a man, bearing him to the 
ground. As John fell he knew exactly what he had 
to deal with—highwaymen! The mare’s swerve 
had saved him a stunning blow on the head. He 
grappled with the assailant as they went down and 
they rolled over and over on the ground feeling for 
strangle holds. John was no tyro at the game; he 
was muscled like a bull and had been taught many 
a trick by his hind Bohenna, the champion, but this 
thief was strong also and marvelously elusive. He 
buckled and twisted under the farmer’s weight, 
finally slipped out of his clutch altogether and leapt 
to his feet. John scrambled up just in time to kick 
the heavy oak cudgel from the man’s reach and 
close with him again. John cross-buttocked and 
back-heeled him repeatedly, but on each occasion the 
man miraculously regained his feet. John tried 
sheer strength, hugged the man to him, straining 
to break his back. The man bent and sprang as 
resilient as a willow wand. John hugged him closer, 
trying to crush his ribs. The man made his teeth 
meet in the farmer’s ear and slipped away again. 

Once more John was just in time to stop him 
from picking up the club. He kicked it into the 
ditch and set to work with his knuckles. But he 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


23 


could not land a blow; wherever he planted his fists 
the fellow was not, eluding them by a fraction of an 
inch, by a lightning side-step or a shake of the head. 
The man went dancing backwards and sideways, 
hands down, bobbing his head, bending, swaying, 
bouncing as though made of rubber. He began to 
laugh. The laugh sent a shiver through John Pen- 
hale. The footpad thought he had him in his hands, 
and unless help came from somewhere the farmer 
knew such was the case; it was only a question of 
time and not much time. He was out of trim and 
cooked to a finish already, while the other was skip¬ 
ping like a dancing master, had breath to spare for 
laughter. 

At that time of night nobody would be on the 
road, and help was not likely to drop from Heaven. 
He had only himself to look to. He thought over 
the manifold tricks he had seen in the wrestling 
ring, thought swiftly and desperately, hit out with 
his left and followed with an upward kick of his 
right foot—Devon style. His fist missed as he ex¬ 
pected, but his boot caught the thief a tip under 
the knee cap as he side-stepped. The man doubled 
up, and John flung himself at him. The footpad 
butted him in the pit of the stomach with his head 
and skipped clear, shouting savagely in Romany, 
but limping, limping! John did not know the lan¬ 
guage, but it told him there was a companion to 
reckon with—a fresh man; the struggle was hope¬ 
less. Nevertheless he turned and ran for the club. 


24 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


He was not fast enough, not fast enough by half; 
three yards from the ditch the lamed thief was on 
him. John heard the quick hop-skip of feet behind 
him and dropped on one knee as the man sprang 
for his back. The footpad, not expecting the drop, 
went too high; he landed across John’s shoulders, 
one arm dropping across the farmer’s chest. In a 
flash John had him by the wrist and jerked upright, 
at the same time dragging down on the wrist; it 
was an adaptation of the Cornish master-throw, 
“the flying mare.” The man went over John’s 
shoulders like a rocket, made a wonderful effort to 
save himself by a back somersault, but the tug on 
his wrist was too much, and he crashed on his side 
in the road. John kicked him on the head till he 
lay still and, picking up the club, whirled to face the 
next comer. Nobody came on. John was per¬ 
plexed. To whom had the fellow been shouting 
if not to a confederate? 

Perhaps the cur had taken fright and was skulk¬ 
ing in the gorse. Very well; he would drub him 
out. He was flushed with victory and had the club 
in his hands now. He was stepping towards the 
furze when he heard a slight scrunching sound to 
his left, and, turning, saw a dark figure squatting 
on the bank at the roadside. John stood still, 
breathing hard, his cudgel ready. The mysterious 
figure did not stir. John stepped nearer, brandish¬ 
ing his club. Still the figure made no move. John 
stepped nearer yet, and at that moment the moon 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


25 


broke clear of a mesh of clouds, flooding the road 
with ghostly light, and John, to his astonishment, 
saw that the confederate was a girl, a girl in a 
tattered cloak and tarnished tumbler finery, munch¬ 
ing a turnip. Strolling acrobats! That explained 
the man’s uncanny agility. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. 

“Nothing, sir,” said the girl, chewing a lump of 
the root. 

“I’ll have him hung and you transported for 
this,” John thundered. 

“I did you no harm,” said the girl calmly. 

That was true enough. John wondered why she 
had not come to the assistance of her man; tribe 
law was strong with these outcasts, he understood. 
He asked her. 

The girl shrugged her shoulders. “He beat me 
yesterday. I wanted to see him beat. You done it. 
Good!” 

She thrust a bare, well-molded arm in John’s face. 
It was bruised from elbow to shoulder. She spat 
at the unconscious tumbler. 

“What is he to you?” John asked. 

“Nothing,” she retorted. “Muck,” and took am 
other wolfish bite at the turnip; she appeared rav¬ 
enous. 

John turned his back on her. He had no inten¬ 
tion of proceeding with the matter, since to do so 
meant carrying a stunned footpad, twelve stone at 
least, a mile into Market Jew and later standing 


26 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

the publicity of the Assizes. He was not a little 
elated at the success of his “flying mare” and in 
a mood to be generous. After all he had lost noth¬ 
ing but a little skin; he would let the matter drop. 
He picked the man up and slung him off the road 
into the gorse of the pack track. Now for his horse. 
He walked past the munching girl In silence, halted, 
felt in his pocket, found a florin and jerked It to 
her. 

“Here,” he said, “get yourself an honest meal.” 

The florin fell In the ditch, the girl dropped off 
the bank onto it as he had seen a hawk drop on a 
field vole. 

“Good God!” he muttered. “She must be 
starved,” and walked on. 

He would knock up the Inn In Market Jew and 
spend the remainder of the night there, he decided. 
He would look for his horse in the morning—but 
he expected it would trot home. 

A hundred yards short of the St. Hilary turning 
he came upon the mare; she was standing quietly, a 
forefoot planted on a broken rein, holding herself 
nose to the ground. He freed her, knotted the rein 
and mounting clattered down the single street and 
out on the beach road on the other side. Since he 
had his horse he would push straight through after 
all; if he stopped he would have to concoct some 
story to account for his battered state, which would 
be difficult. He went at a walk, pondering over 
the events of the night. On his left hand the black 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


27 


mass of St. Michael’s Mount loomed out of the 
moon-silvered bay like some basking sea monster; 
before him lay Penzance with the spire of St. Mary’s 
rising above the masts of the coasters, spearing at 
the stars. 

At Ponsandane River the mare picked up a stone. 
John jumped off, hooked it out and was preparing 
to remount when he noticed that she had got her 
head round and was staring back down the road, 
ears pricked. There was some one behind them. 
He waited a full minute, but could neither see nor 
hear anything, so went on again, through Penzance, 
over Newlyn Green and up the hill. The wind 
had died away. It was the still hour that outrides 
dawn; the east was already paling. In the farms 
about Paul, John could hear the cocks bugling to 
each other; hidden birds in the blackthorns gave 
sleepy twitters; a colt whinnied “good morning” 
from a near-by field and cantered along the hedge, 
shaking the dew from its mane. Everything was 
very quiet, very peaceful, yet John could not rid 
himself of the idea that he was being followed. He 
pulled up again and listened, but, hearing nothing, 
rode on, calling himself a fool. 

He dropped down into Trevelloe Bottoms, gave 
the mare a drink in Lamorna stream and climbed 
Boleigh. A wall-eyed sheep dog came out of a 
cottage near the Pipers and flew, yelping, at the 
horse’s heels. He cursed it roundly and it retired 
whence it came, tail between its legs. As he turned 


28 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the bend in the road he heard the cur break into a 
fresh frenzy of barking. 

There was somebody behind him after all, some¬ 
body who went softly and stopped when he did. 
It was as he had suspicioned; the tumbler had come 
to and was trailing him home to get his revenge— 
to fire stacks or rip a cow, an old gypsy trick. John 
swung the mare into a cattle track, tied her to a 
blackthorn, pulled a heavy stone out of the mud and 
waited, crouched against the bank, hidden in the 
furze. He would settle this rogue once and for all. 
Every yeoman instinct aroused, he would have faced 
forty such in defense of his stock, his place. 

Dawn was lifting her golden head over the long 
arm of the Lizard. A chain of little pink clouds 
floated above her like adoring cherubs. Morning 
mists drifted up from the switch-backed hills to the 
north, white as steam. Over St. Gwithian tower the 
moon hung, haggard and deathly pale, an old siren 
giving place to a rosy debutante. In the bushes 
birds twittered and cheeped, tuning their voices 
against the day. John Penhale waited, bent double, 
the heavy stone ready in his hands. The footpad 
was a long time coming. John wondered if he had 
taken the wrong turning—^but that was improbable; 
the mare’s tracks were plain. Some one might have 
come out of the cottage and forced the fellow into 
hiding—or he might have sensed the ambush. John 
was just straightening his back to peer over the furze 
when he heard the soft thud of bare feet on the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


29 


road, heard them hesitate and then turn towards 
him, following the hoof prints. He held his breath, 
judged the time and distance and sprang up, the 
stone poised in both hands above his head. He 
lowered it slowly and let it drop in the mud. It 
was the girl! 

She looked at the stone, then at John and her 
mouth twitched with the flicker of a smile. John 
felt foolish and consequently angry. He stepped 
out of the bushes. 

“Why are you following me?” he demanded. 

She looked down at her bare feet, then up at him 
out of the corners of her deep dark eyes, but made 
no answer. 

John grasped her by an arm and shook her. 
“Can’t you speak? Why are you following me?” 

She did not reply, but winced slightly, and John 
saw that he was gripping one of the cruel bruises. 
He released her, instantly contrite. 

“I did not mean to do that,” he said. Then, 
hardening again: “But, look you. I’ll have no more 
of this. I’ll have none of your kind round here, 
burning ricks. If I catch you near my farm I’ll 
hand you over to the law for . . . for what you 
are and you’ll be whipped. Do you hear me?” 

The girl remained silent, leaning up against the 
bank, pouting, looking up at John under her long 
lashes. She was handsome in a sulky, outlandish 
way, he admitted. She had a short nose, high cheek¬ 
bones and very dark eyes with odd lights in them; 


30 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


her bare head was covered with crisp black curls 
and she wore big brass earrings; a little guitar was 
tucked under one arm. The tattered cloak was 
drawn tight about her, showing the thin but grace¬ 
ful lines of her figure—a handsome trollop. 

“If you won’t speak you won’t . . . but, remem¬ 
ber, I have warned you,” said John, but with less 
heat, as he untied his horse and mounted. As he 
turned the corner he glanced furtively back and met 
the girl’s eyes full. He put spurs to the mare, 
flushing hotly. 

A quarter of an hour later he reined up in his 
yard. He had been away rather less than twenty- 
four hours, but it seemed like as many days. It 
was good to be home. A twist of blue smoke at 
a chimney told him Martha was stirring and he 
would get breakfast soon. He heard the blatter of 
calves in their shed and the deep, answering moo 
of cows from the byre, the splash and babble of 
the stream. In the elms the rooks had already be¬ 
gun to quarrel—familiar voices. 

He found Bohenna in the stable wisping a horse 
and singing his one song, “I seen a ram at Hereford 
Fair,” turned the mare over to him and sought the 
yard again. 

It was good to be home . . . and yet, and yet 
. . . things moved briskly outside, one found adven¬ 
tures out in the world, adventures that set the blood 
racing. He was boyishly pleased with his tussle 
with the vagabond, had tricked him rather neatly. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


31 


he thought; he must tell Bohenna about that. Then 
the girl. She had not winced at the sight of his 
face, not a quiver, had smiled at him even. He 
wondered if she were still standing in the cow track, 
the blue cloak drawn about her, squelching mud 
through her bare toes—or was she ranging the fields 
after more turnips—turnips! She was no better 
than an animal—^but a handsome animal for all that, 
if somewhat thin. Oh, well, she had gone now; 
he had scared her off, would never see her again. 

He turned to walk into the house and saw the 
girl again. She was leaning against the gate post, 
looking up at him under her lashes. He stood stock¬ 
still for a moment, amazed as at a vision, and then 
flung at her: 

“You—^you . . . didn’t you hear what I said?” 
She neither stirred nor spoke. 

John halted. He felt his fury going from him 
like wind from a pricked bladder. In a second 
he would be no longer master of himself. In the 
glow of morning she was handsomer than ever; she 
was young, not more than twenty, there was a blue 
gloss on the black curls, the brass earrings glinted 
among them; her skin had a golden sunburnt tint 
and her eyes smoldered with curious lights. 

“What do you want?” John stammered, suddenly 
husky. 

The girl smiled up at him, a slow, full-lipped 
smile. “You won me ... so I came,” she said. 

John’s heart leapt with old pagan pride. To the 


32 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


victor the spoils!—aye, verily! He caught the girl 
by the shoulders and whirled her round so that his 
own face came full to the sunrise. 

“Do you see this?” he cried. “Look well, look 
well!” 

The girl stared at him steadily, without a tremor, 
without the flick of an eyelid, and then, bending, 
rubbed her forehead, cat-like, against his shoulder. 

“Marry,” she purred, “I’ve seen worse than that 
where I came from.” 

For answer John caught her up in his arms and 
marched, shouting with rough laughter, into the 
house, the tumbler girl clasped tight to his breast, 
her arms about his neck. 

To the victor the spoils! 


CHAPTER III 


B OSULA—“The Owls’ House”—lay in the 
Keigwin Valley, about six miles southwest of 
Penzance. The valley drained the peninsula’s 
bare backbone of tors, ran almost due south until 
within a mile and a half of the sea, formed a sharp 
angle, ran straight again and met the English Chan¬ 
nel at Monks Cove. A stream threaded its entire 
length, its source a holy well on Bartinny Downs 
(the water of which, taken at the first of the moon, 
was reputed a cure for chest complaints). Towards 
the river’s source the valley was a shallow swamp, 
a wide bed of tussocks, flags, willow and thorn, the 
haunt of snipe and woodcock in season, but as it 
neared Bosnia it grew narrower and deeper until 
it emptied into the sea, pinched to a sharp gorge 
between precipitous cliffs. 

It was a surprising valley. You came from the 
west over the storm-swept, treeless table-land that 
drives into the Atlantic like a wedge and is beaten 
upon by three seas, came with clamorous salt gales 
buffeting you this way and that, pelting you with 
black showers of rain, came suddenly to the valley 
rim and dropped downhill into a different climate, a 
serene, warm place of trees with nothing to break 
the peace but the gentle chatter of the stream. 
33 


34 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


When the wind set roundabouts of south it was 
not so quiet. The cove men had a saw— 

“When the river calls the sea, 

Fishing there will be; 

When the sea calls the river, 

’Ware foul weather.” 

Bosula stood at the apex of the angle, guarded 
on all sides, but when the wind set southerly and 
strong the boom of the breakers on the Twelve 
Apostles reef-came echoing up the valley in deep, 
tremendous organ peals. So clear did they sound 
that one would imagine the sea had broken inland 
and that inundation was imminent. 

The founder of the family was a tin-streamer 
from Crowan, who, noting that the old men had 
got their claws into every inch of payable dirt in 
the parish, loaded his implements on a donkey and 
went westward looking for a stream of his own. 
In due course he and his ass meandered down 
Keigwin Valley and pitched camp in the elbow. On 
the fourth day Penhale the First, soil-stained and 
unkempt, approached the lord of the manor and 
proposed washing the stream on tribute. He held 
out no hopes, but was willing to give it a try, being 
out of work. The lord of the manor knew nothing 
of tin or tinners, regarded the tatterdemalion with 
casual contempt and let him draw up almost what 
terms he liked. In fifteen years Penhale had taken 
a small fortune out of the valley, bought surround- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


35 

Ing land and built a house on the site of his original 
camp. From thenceforth the Penhales were farm¬ 
ers, and each in his turn added something, a field, 
a bit of moorland, a room to the house. 

When John Penhale took possession the estate 
held three hundred acres of arable land, to say 
nothing of stretches of adjoining bog and heather, 
useful for grazing cattle. The buildings formed a 
square, with the yard in the center, the house on 
the north and the stream enclosing the whole on 
three sides, so that the place was serenaded with 
eternal music, the song of running water, tinkling 
among bowlders, purling over shallows, splashing 
over falls. 

Penhale, the tinner, built a two-storied house of 
four rooms, but his successor had seven children, 
and an Elizabethan, attuning himself to a prolific 
age, thirteen. The first of these added a couple of 
rooms, the second four. Since building forwards 
encroached on the yard and building backwards 
would bring them into the stream they, perforce, ex¬ 
tended sideways and westwards. In John Penhale’s 
time the house was five rooms long and one thick, 
with the front door stranded at the east end and 
the thatch coming down so low the upper windows 
had the appearance of old men’s eyes peering out 
under arched and shaggy brows. There was little 
distinctive about the house save the chimneys, which 
were inordinately high, and the doorway which was 
carved. Penhale the First, who knew something 


36 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of smelting and had ideas about draught, had set 
the standard in chimney pots, but the Elizabethan 
was responsible for the doorway. He pulled a half- 
drowned sailor out of the cove one dawn, brought 
him home, fed and clothed him. The castaway, a 
foreigner of some sort, being unable to express grati¬ 
tude in words, picked up a hammer and stone chisel 
and decorated his rescuer’s doorway—^until then 
three plain slabs of granite. He carved the date on 
the lintel and a pattern of interwoven snakes on 
the uprights, culminating in two comic little heads, 
one on either side of the door, intended by the artist 
as portraits of his host and hostess, but which they, 
unflattered, and doubtless prompted by the pattern 
below, had passed down to posterity as Adam and 
Eve. 

The first Penhale was a squat, burly man and 
built his habitation to fit himself, but the succeeding 
generations ran to height and were in constant dan¬ 
ger of braining themselves against the ceilings. 
They could sit erect, but never rose without glancing 
aloft, and when they stood up their heads well-nigh 
disappeared among the deep beams. This had in¬ 
culcated in them the habit of stooping instinctively 
on stepping through any door. A Dean of Gwithian 
used to swear that the Penhale family entered his 
spacious church bent double. 

The first Penhale, being of small stature, made his 
few windows low down; the subsequent Penhales 
had to squat to see out of them. Not that the Pen- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


37 


hales needed windows to look out of; they were an 
open-air breed who only came indoors to eat and 
sleep. The ugly, cramped old house served their 
needs well. They came home from the uplands or 
the bottoms at the fall of night, came in from 
plowing, shooting, hedging or driving cattle, came 
mud-plastered, lashed by the winter winds, saw 
Bosnia lights twinkling between the sheltering trees, 
bowed their tall heads between Adam and Eve and, 
entering the warm kitchen, sat down to mighty meals 
of good beef and good vegetables, stretched their 
legs before the open hearth, grunting with full-fed 
content, and yawned off to bed and immediate sleep, 
lulled by the croon of the brook and the whisper of 
the wind in the treetops. Gales might skim roofs 
off down in the Cove, ships batter to matchwood on 
the Twelve Apostles, upland ricks be scattered over 
the parish, the Penhales of Bosnia slept sound in 
the lap of the hills, snug behind three-foot walls. 

In winter, looking down from the hills, you could 
barely see Bosnia for trees, in summer not at all. 
They filled the valley from side to side and for half 
a mile above and below the house, oak, ash, elm and 
sycamore with an undergrowth of hazel and thorn. 
Near the house the stream, narrowed to a few feet, 
ran between banks of bowlders piled up by the first 
Penhale and his tinners. They had rooted up bowl¬ 
ders everywhere and left them lying anyhow, on 
their ends or sides, great uneven blocks of granite, 
now covered with an emerald velvet of moss or 


38 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


furred with gray and yellow lichen. Between these 
blocks the trees thrust, flourishing on their own leaf 
mold. The ashes and elms went straight up till 
they met the wind leaping from hill to hill and then 
stopped, nipped to an even height as a box-hedge is 
trimmed by shears; but the thorns and hazels started 
crooked and grew crooked all the way, their 
branches writhing and tangling into fantastic clumps 
and shapes to be overgrown and smothered in toils 
of ivy and honeysuckle. 

In spring the tanglewood valley was a nursery 
of birds. Wrens, thrushes, chiffchaffs, greenfinches 
and chaffinches built their nests in scented thickets 
of hawthorn and may; blue and oxeye tits kept house 
in holes in the apple and oak trees. These added 
their songs to that of the brook. In spring the 
bridal woods about Bosula rippled and thrilled with 
liquid and debonair melody. But it was the owls 
that were the feature of the spot. Winter or sum¬ 
mer they sat on their boughs and hooted to each 
other across the valley, waking the woods with 
startling and eerie screams. “To-whoo, wha-aa, 
who-hoo!” they would go, amber eyes burning, and 
then launch themselves heavily from their perches 
and beat, gray and ghostly, across the moon. 
“Whoo, wha-hoo!” 

Young lovers straying up the valley were apt to 
clasp each other the tighter and whisper of men 
murdered and evil hauntings when they heard the 
owls, but the first Penhale in his day, camped with 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


39 


his ass in the crook of the stream, took their banshee 
salutes as a good omen. He lay on his back in the 
leaves listening to them and wondering at their 
number. 

“Bos hula enweer ew’n teller na,” said he in 
Cornish, as he rolled over to sleep. “Truly this 
is the owls’ house.” 


CHAPTER IV 


W HEN John Penhale carried the gypsy girl 
into Bosnia, he thought she would be off 
again in a fortnight or a month at most. 
On the contrary she curled up as snug as a dor¬ 
mouse, apparently prepared to stay forever. At 
first she followed him wherever he went about the 
farm, but after a week she gave that up and re¬ 
mained at Bosnia absorbed in the preparation of 
food. 

The number of really satisfying meals the girl 
Teresa had had in her time could be counted on 
her fingers and toes, almost. Life had been main¬ 
tained by a crust here and a bone there. She was 
only half gypsy; her mother had been an itinerant 
herbalist, her father a Basque bear-leader, and she 
was born at Blyth Fair. Her twenty-two years had 
been spent on the highways, singing and dancing 
from tavern to tavern, harried by the law on one 
side and hunger on the other. She had no love for 
the Open Road; her feet were sore from trudging 
it and she knew it led nowhere but to starvation; 
her mother had died in a ditch and her father had 
been hanged. For years she had been waiting a 
chance to get out of the dust, and when John came 
40 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 41 

along, knocked out the tumbler and jerked her a 
florin she saw that possible chance, 

A sober farmer who tossed silver so freely should 
be a bachelor, she argued, and a man who could 
fight like that must have a good deal of the lusty 
animal about him. She knew the type, and of all 
men they were the easiest to handle. She followed 
up the clew hot foot, and now here she was in a 
land of plenty. She had no intention of leaving 
in a fortnight, a month, or ever, if she could help 
it, no desire to exchange three meat meals daily, 
smoking hot, for turnips; or a soft bed for the 
lee of a haystack. She would sit on the floor after 
supper, basking at the roaring hearth, her back 
propped against John’s knees, and listen to the drip 
of the eaves, the sough of the treetops, the echoed 
organ crashes of the sea, snuggle closer to the 
farmer and laugh. 

When he asked her why she did that she shrugged 
her shoulders. But she laughed to think of what 
she was escaping, laughed to think that the tumbler 
was out in it. But for that flung florin and the 
pricking of her thumbs she would have been out 
in it too, crouched under a hedge, maybe, soaked 
and shivering, Penhale need have had no fears she 
would leave him; on the contrary she was afraid he 
would tire of her, and strove by every means to 
bind him to her irrevocably. She practiced all her 
wiles on John, ran to him when he came in, fondled 
and kissed him, rubbed her head on his shoulder. 


42 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


swore he didn’t care for her, pretended to cry, any 
excuse to get taken in his arms; once there she had 
him in her power. The quarter strain of gitano 
came uppermost then, the blood of generations of 
ardent southern women, professional charmers all, 
raced in her veins and prompted her, show^ed her 
how and when. It was all instinctive and quite irre¬ 
sistible; the simple northern yeoman was a clod in 
her hands. 

Martha had found Teresa some drugget clothes, 
rummaging in chests that lay, under the dust of 
twenty years, in the neglected west wing—oak chests 
and mahogany with curious iron clasps and hinges, 
the spoil of a score of foundered ships. Teresa 
had been close behind the woman when the selection 
was made and she had glimpsed many things that 
were not drugget. When she gave up following 
John abroad she took to spending most of her time, 
between meals, in the west wing, bolting the doors 
behind her so that Martha could not see what she 
was doing. 

John was lurching home down the valley one 
autumn evening, when, as he neared Bosula, he 
heard singing and the tinkling of melodious wires. 
There was a small grove of ashes close ahead, en¬ 
circling an open patch of ground supposed to be 
a fairy ring, in May a purple pool of bluebells, but 
then carpeted with russet and yellow leaves. He 
stepped nearer, peered round an oak bole and saw 
a sight which made him stagger and swear himself 



THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


43 


bewitched. There was a marvelous lady dancing 
in the circlet, and as she danced she sang, twanging 
an accompaniment on a little guitar. 

‘‘Then, Lovely Boy, bring hither 
The Chaplet, e’er it wit&r. 

Steep’d in the various Juices 
The Cluster’d Vine produces; 

The Cluster’d Vine produces.” 

She was dressed in a straight-laced bodice stitched 
with silver and low cut, leaving her shoulders bare; 
flowing daffodil sleeves caught up at the elbows and 
a cream-colored skirt sprigged with blue flowers and 
propped out at the hips on monstrous farthingales. 
On her head she wore a lace fan-tail—but her feet 
were bare. She swept round and round in a circle, 
very slow and stately, swaying, turning, curtseying 
to the solemn audience of trees. 

“So mix’t with sweet and sour, 

Life’s not unlike the flower; 

Its Sweets unpluck’d will languish, 

And gather’d ’tis with anguish; 

And gather’d ’tis with anguish.” 

The glare of sunset shot through gaps in the wood 
in quivering golden shafts, fell on the smooth trunks 
of the ashes transforming them into pillars of gold. 
In this dazzle of gold the primrose lady danced, 
in and out of the beams, now glimmering, now in 
hazy and delicate shadow. A puff of wind shook 


44 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


a shower of pale leaves upon her, they drifted about 
her like confetti, her bare feet rustled among them, 
softly, softly. 

“This, round my moisten’d Tresses, 

The use of Life expresses: 

Wine blunts the thorn of Sorrow, 

Our Rose may fade to-morrow: 

Our Rose—may—fade—to-morrow.” 

The sun went down behind the hill; twilight, 
powder-blue, swept through the wood, quenching the 
symphony in yellows. The lady made a final fritter 
of strings, bowed to the biggest ash and faded 
among the trees, towards Bosnia. John clung to his 
oak, stupefied. Despite his Grammar School educa¬ 
tion he half believed in the crone’s stories of Pixies 
and “the old men,” and if this was not a super¬ 
natural being what was it? A fine lady dancing in 
Bosnia woods at sundown—and in the fairy circle 
too! If not a sprite where did she come from? 
There was not her match in the parish, or hundred 
even. He did not like it at all. He would go home 
by circling over the hill. He hesitated. That was 
a long detour, he was tired and his own orchard 
was not a furlong distant. His common sense re¬ 
turned. Damme I he would push straight home, he 
was big and strong enough whatever betide. He 
walked boldly through the woods, whistling away 
his fears, snapping twigs beneath his boots. 

He came to a dense clump of hollies at the edge 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


45 


of the orchard and heard the tinkle-tinkle again, 
right in front of him. He froze solid and stared 
ahead. It was thick dusk among the bushes; he 
could see nothing. Tinkle-tinkle—from the right 
this time. He turned slowly, his flesh prickling. 
Nothing. A faint rustle of leaves behind his back 
and the tinkle of music once more. John began 
to sweat. He was pixie-led for certain—and only 
fifty yards from his own door. If one listened to 
this sort of thing one was presently charmed and 
lost forever, he had heard. He would make a dash 
for it. He burst desperately through the hollies 
and saw the primrose lady standing directly in front 
of him on the orchard fringe. He stopped. She 
curtsied low. 

“Oh, Jan, Jan,” she laughed. “Jan, come here 
and kiss me.” 

“Teresa!” 

She pressed close against him and held up her 
full, tempting mouth. He kissed her over and 
over. 

“Where did you get these—^these clothes?” he 
asked. 

“Out of the old chests,” said she. “You like me 
thus? . . . love me?” 

For answer he hugged her to him and they went 
on into the kitchen linked arm in arm. Martha in 
her astonishment let the cauldron spill all over the 
floor and the idiot daughter threw a fit. 

The drugget dress disappeared after that. 


46 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Teresa rifled the chests and got some marvelous 
results. The chests held the hoardings of a cen¬ 
tury, samples of every fashion, washed in from 
wrecks on the Twelve Apostles, wardrobes of offi¬ 
cers’ mistresses bound for the garrison at Tangier, 
of proud ladies that went down with Indiamen, 
packet ships, and vessels sailing for the Virginia 
Colony. Jackdaw pickings that generations of Pen- 
hale women had been too modest to wear and too 
feminine to part with. Gowns, under gowns, bod¬ 
ices, smocks and stomachers of silk, taffeta, sarsenet 
and satin of all hues and shapes, quilted, brocaded, 
embroidered, pleated, scalloped and slashed; cam¬ 
bric and holland ruffs, collars, bands, kerchiefs and 
lappets; scarves, trifles of lace pointed and go- 
drooned; odd gloves of cordovan leather, heavily 
fringed; vamped single shoes, red heeled; ribbons; 
knots; spangled garters; feathers and fans. 

The clothes were torn and faded in patches, eaten 
by moth, soiled and rusted by salt water, but Teresa 
cared little; they were treasure-trove to her, the 
starveling. She put them all on in turn (as the 
Penhale wives had done before her—but in secret) 
without regard to fit, appropriateness or period and 
with the delight of a child dressing up for a mas¬ 
querade. She dressed herself differently every eve¬ 
ning—even wearing articles with showy linings in¬ 
side out—aiming only at a blaze of color and spend¬ 
ing hours in the selection. I 

The management of the house she left entirely j 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


47 


to Martha, which was wise enough, seeing she knew 
nothing of houses. John coming in of an evening 
never knew what was in store for him; it gave life 
an added savour. He approached Adam and Eve, 
his heart a-flutter—what would she be like this 
time?—opened the low door and stepped within. 
And there she would be, standing before the hearth 
waiting for him, mischievous and radiant, brass 
earrings winking, a knot of ribbons in her raven 
curls, dressed in scarlet, cream, purple or blue, cloth 
of gold or silver lace—all worn and torn if you 
came to examine closely, but, in the leaping firelight, 
gorgeous. 

Sometimes she would spend the evening wooing 
him, sidling into his arms, rubbing with her cheek 
and purring in her cat fashion; and sometimes she 
would take her guitar and, sitting cross-legged be¬ 
fore the hearth, sing the songs by which she had 
made her living. Pretty, innocent twitters for the 
most part, laments to cruel Chloes, Phyllises and 
Celias in which despairing Colins and Strephons 
sang of their broken hearts in tripping, tuneful 
measures; morris and country airs she gave also 
and patriotic staves— 

“Tho’ the Spaniards invade 
Our Interest and Trade 
And often our Merchant-men plunder, 

Give us but command 
Their force to withstand, 

We’ll soon make the slaves truckle under.” 


4S 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Such stuff stirred John. As the lyrics lulled him, 
he would inflate his chest and tap his toe on the 
flags in time with the tune, very manful. 

All this heady stuff intoxicated the recluse. He 
felt a spell on the place, could scarcely believe it 
was the same dark kitchen in which he had sat alone 
for seventeen years, listening to the stream, the rain 
and the wind. It was like living in a droll-teller’s 
story where charcoal burners fell asleep on en¬ 
chanted barrows and woke in fairy-land or immortals 
put on mortal flesh and sojourned in the homes of 
men. Reared on superstition among a race that 
placed balls on their roofs and hung rags about holy 
wells to keep off witches, he almost smelt magic now. 
At times he wondered if this strange creature he 
had met on the high moors under the moon were 
what she held to be, if one day she would not get 
a summons back to her own people, the earth gape 
open for her and he would be alone again. There 
had been an authentic case in Zennor parish; his own 
grandmother had seen the forsaken husband. He 
would glance at Teresa half fearfully, see her 
squatting before the blaze, lozenges of white skin 
showing through the rips in her finery, strong fingers 
plucking the guitar strings, round throat swelling as 
she sang— 

‘T saw fair Clara walk alone; 

The feathered snow came softly down . . .” 

—and scout his suspicions. She was human enough 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 49 

—and even if she were not, sufficient for the 
day. . . . 

As for the girl, with the unstinted feeding, she 
put on flesh and good looks. Her bones and angles 
disappeared, her figure took on bountiful curves, 
her mouth lost its defiant pout. She had more than 
even she wanted to eat, a warm bed, plenty of color¬ 
ful kickshaws and a lover who fell prostrate before 
her easiest artifices. She was content—or very 
nearly so. One thing remained and that was to put 
this idyllic state of affairs on a permanent basis. 
That accomplished, her cup of happiness would 
brim, she told herself. How to do it? She fancied 
it was more than half done already and that, unless 
she read him wrong, she would presently have such 
a grip on the farmer he would never throw her off. 
By January she was sure of herself and laid her 
cards on the table. 

According to her surmise John took her forth¬ 
with into St. Gwithian, a-pillion on the bay mare, 
and married her, and on the third of July a boy 
was born. It was a great day at Bosnia; all the 
employees, including Martha, got blind drunk, while 
John spent a delightful afternoon laboriously 
scratching a letter to Carveth Donnithorne apprising 
him of the happy event. 

Upstairs, undisturbed by the professional chatter 
of wise women, Teresa lay quietly sleeping, a fluffy 
small head in the crook of her arm, a tired smile 
on her lips—she was in out of the rain for good. 


50 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


It is to be presumed that in the Donnithorne vault 
of Cury Church the dust of old Selina at length lay 
quiet—^the Penhales would go on and on. 


CHAPTER V 


T he first boy was born in 1754 and was fol¬ 
lowed in 1756 by another. They christened 
the eldest Ortho, a family name, and the 
second Eli. 

When his younger son was three months old John 
died. He got wet, extricating a horse from a bog- 
hole, and took no heed, having been wet through 
a hundred times before. A chill seized him; he 
still took no notice. The chill developed into pneu¬ 
monia, but he struggled on, saying nothing. Then 
Bohenna found him prostrate in the muck of the 
stable; he had been trying to yoke the oxen with 
the intention of going out to plow. 

Bohenna carried him, protesting, up to bed. 
Only when he was dying would he admit he was 
ill. He was puzzled and angry. Why should he 
be sick now who had never felt a qualm before? 
What was a wetting, i’ faith! For forty odd win¬ 
ters he had seldom been dry. It was ridiculous! 
He tried to lift himself, exhorting the splendid, 
loyal body that had never yet failed him to have 
done with this folly and bear him outside to the 
sunshine and the day’s work. It did not respond; 
might have been so much lead. He fell back, be¬ 
trayed, helpless, frightened, and went off into a 
51 


52 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


delirium. The end was close. He came to his 
senses once again about ten o’clock at night and 
saw Teresa bending over him, the new son in her 
arms. She was crying and had a tender look in 
her tear-bright eyes he had never seen before. He 
tried to smile at her. Nothing to cry about. He’d 
be all right in the morning—after a night’s sleep 
—go plowing—everything came right in the morn¬ 
ing. Towards midnight Martha, who was watch¬ 
ing, set up a dreadful screech. It was all over. As 
if awaiting the signal came a hooting from the 
woods about the house, “Too-whee-wha-ho-oo-oo!” 
—the Bosula owls lamenting the passing of its 
master. 

Fate, in cutting down John Penhale in his prime, 
did him no disservice. He went into oblivion 
knowing Teresa only as a thing of beauty, half 
magical, wholly adorable. He was spared the years 
of disillusionment which would have pained him 
sorely, for he was a sensitive man. 

Teresa mourned for her husband with a passion 
which was natural to her and which was very highly 
considered in the neighborhood. At the funeral she 
flung herself on the coffin, and refused to be loos¬ 
ened from it for a quarter of an hour, moaning and 
tearing at the lid with her fingers. Venerable dames 
who had attended every local interment for half 
a century wagged their bonnets and admitted they 
had never seen a widow display a prettier spirit. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


53 


Teresa was quite genuine in her way. John had 
treated her with a gentleness and generosity she had 
not suspected was to be found on this earth, and 
now this kindly cornucopia had been snatched from 
her—and just when she had made so sure of him 
too! She blubbered in good earnest. But after 
the lawyer’s business was over she cheered up. 

In the first flush of becoming a father, John had 
ridden into Penzance and made a will, but since Eli’s 
birth he had made no second; there was plenty of 
time, he thought, years and years of it. Conse¬ 
quently everything fell to Ortho when he came of 
age, and in the meanwhile Teresa was sole guardian. 
That meant she was mistress of Bosnia and had the 
handling of the hundred and twenty pounds invested 
income, to say nothing of the Tregors rents, fifty 
pounds per annum. One hundred and seventy 
pounds a year to spend! The sum staggered her. 
She had hardly made that amount of money in her 
whole life. She sat up that night, long after the 
rest of the household had gone to bed, wrapped in 
delicious dreams of how she would spend that annual 
fortune. She soon began to learn. Martha hinted 
that, in a lady of her station, the wearing of black 
was considered proper as a tribute to the memory 
of the deceased, so, finding nothing dark in the 
chests, she mounted a horse behind Bohenna and 
jogged into town. 

A raw farmer’s wife, clutching a bag of silver 
and demanding only to be dressed in black, is a 


54 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


gift to any shopman. The Penzance draper called 
up his seamstresses, took Teresa’s measure for a 
silk dress—nothing but silk would be fitting, he 
averred; the greater the cost the greater the tribute 
—added every somber accessory that he could think 
of, separated her from £13.6.4 of her hoard and 
bowed her out, promising to send the articles by 
carrier within three days. Teresa went through the 
ordeal like one in a trance, too awed to protest or 
speak even. On the way home she sought to con¬ 
sole herself with the thought that her extravagance 
was on John’s, dear John’s behalf. Still thirteen 
pounds, six shillings and fourpence 1—more than 
Bohenna’s wages for a year gone in a finger snap! 
Ruin stared her in the face. 

The black dress, cap, flounced petticoat, stiff stays, 
stockings, apron, cloak of Spanish cloth and high- 
heeled shoes arrived to date and set the household 
agog. Teresa, its devastating price forgotten, pea¬ 
cocked round the house and yard all day, swelling 
with pride, the rustle of the silk atoning for the 
agony she was suffering from the stays and shoes- 
As the sensation died down she yearned for fresh] 
conquests, so mounting the pillion afresh, made a 
tour through the parish, paying special attention to 
Gwithian Church-town and Monks Cove. 

The tour was a triumph. Women rushed to their 
cottage doors and stared after her, goggling. At 
Pridden a party of hedgers left work and raced 
across a field to see her go by. Near Tregadgwith 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 55 

a farmer fell off his horse from sheer astonishment. 
She was the sole topic of the district for a week or 
more. John’s memory was duly honored. 

In a month Teresa was tired of the black dress; 
her fancy did not run to black. The crisp and 
shining new silk had given her a distaste for the 
old silks, the soiled and tattered salvage of wrecks. 
She stuffed the motley rags back in the chests and 
slammed the lids on them. She had seen some 
breath-taking rolls of material in that shop in Pen¬ 
zance—orange, emerald, turquoise, coral and lilac. 
She shut her eyes and imagined herself in a flowing 
furbelowed dress of each of these colors in turn— 
or one combining a little of everything—oh, rapture 1 

She consulted Martha in the matter. Martha was 
shocked. It was unheard of. She must continue to 
wear black in public for a year at least. This in¬ 
telligence depressed Teresa, but she was determined 
to be correct, as she had now a position to maintain, 
was next thing to a lady. Eleven months more to 
wait, heigh-ho! 

Then, drawn by the magnet of the shops, she went 
into Penzance again. Penzance had become some¬ 
thing more than a mere tin and pilchard port; vis¬ 
itors attracted by its mild climate came in by every 
packet; there was a good inn, “The Ship and 
Castle,” and in 1752 a coffee house had been opened 
and the road to Land’s End made possible for car¬ 
riages. Many fine ladies were to be seen fanning 
themselves at windows in Chapel Street or strolling 


56 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


on the Green, and Teresa wanted to study their cos¬ 
tumes with a view to her own. 

She dismounted at the Market Cross, moved 
about among the booths and peeped furtively in at 
the shops. They were most attractive, displaying 
glorious things to wear and marvelous things to 
eat—tarts, cakes, Dutch biscuits, ginger-breads 
shaped like animals, oranges, plum and sugar candy. 
Sly old women wheedled her to buy, enlarging ec¬ 
statically on the excellence and cheapness of their 
wares. Teresa wavered and reflected that though 
she might not be able to buy a new dress for a year 
there was no law against her purchasing other things. 
The bag of silver burnt her fingers and she fell. 
She bought some gingerbread animals at four for 
a farthing, tasted them, thought them ambrosia and 
bought sixpennorth to take with her, also lollipops. 
She went home trembling at her extravagance, but 
when she came to count up what she had spent it 
seemed to have made no impression on the bag of 
silver. In six weeks she went in again, bought a 
basketful of edibles and replaced her brass earrings 
with large gold half-moons. When these were paid 
for the bag was badly drained. Teresa took fright 
and visited town no more for the year—^but as a 
matter of fact she had spent less than twenty pounds 
in all. But she had got in the way of spending now. 

The tin works in which John’s money was in¬ 
vested paid up at the end of the year (one hundred 
and twenty-six pounds, seventeen shillings and eight- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


57 


pence on this occasion), and Tregors rent came in 
on the same day. It seemed to Teresa that the 
heavens had opened up and showered uncounted 
gold upon her. 

She went into Penzance next morning as fast as 
the bay mare could carry her and ordered a dress 
bordered with real lace and combining all the hues 
of the rainbow. She was off. Never having had 
any money she had not the slightest idea of its value 
and was mulcted accordingly. In the third year of 
widowhood she spent the last penny of her income. 

The farm she left to Bohenna, the house to 
Martha, the children to look after themselves, and 
rode in to Penzance market and all over the hun¬ 
dred, to parish feasts, races and hurling matches, 
a notable figure with her flaming dresses, raven hair 
and huge earrings, laying the odds, singing songs 
and standing drinks in ale houses like any squire. 

When John died she was at her zenith. The early 
bloom of her race began to fade soon after, accel¬ 
erated by gross living. She still ate enormously, 
as though the hunger of twenty-two lean years was 
not yet appeased. She was like an animal at table, 
seizing bones in her hands and tearing the meat off 
with her teeth, grunting the while like a famished 
dog, or stuffing the pastries she bought in Penzance 
into her mouth two at a time. She hastened from 
girlish to buxom, from buxom to stout. The bay 
mare began to feel the increasing weight on the 
pillion. Bohenna was left at home and Teresa rode 


58 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


alone, sitting sideways on a pad, or a-straddle when 
no one was looking. Yet she was still comely in a 
large way and had admirers aplenty. Sundry im¬ 
pecunious gentlemen, hoping to mend their fortunes, 
paid court to the lavish widow, but Teresa saw 
through their blandishments, and after getting all 
possible sport out of them sent them packing. 

With the curate-in-charge pf St. Gwithian it whs 
the other way about. Teresa made the running. 
She went to church in the first place because it 
struck her as an opportunity to flaunt her superior 
finery in public and make other women feel sick. 
She went a second time to gaze at the parson. This 
gentleman was an anemic young man with fair hair, 
pale blue eyes, long hands and a face refined through 
partial starvation. (The absentee beneficiary al¬ 
lowed him eighteen pounds a year.) Obeying the 
law of opposites, the heavy dark gypsy woman was 
vaguely attracted by him at once and the attraction 
strengthened. 

He was something quite new to her. Among the 
clumsy-limbed country folk he appeared so slim, so 
delicate, almost ethereal. Also, unable to read or 
write herself and surrounded by people as ignorant 
as she, his easy familiarity with books and the ver¬ 
bose phrasing of his sermons filled her with admira¬ 
tion. On Easter Sunday he delivered himself of a 
particularly flowery effort. Teresa understood not a 
word of it, but, nevertheless, thought it beautiful 
and wept audibly. She thought the preacher looked 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 59 

beautiful too, with his clear skin, veined temples and 
blue eyes. A shaft of sunlight pierced the south 
window and fell upon his fair head as though an 
expression of divine benediction. Teresa thought 
he looked like a saint. Perhaps he was a saint. 

She rode home slowly, so wrapped in meditation 
that she was late for dinner, an unprecedented occur¬ 
rence. She would marry that young man. If she 
were going to marry again it must be to some one 
she could handle, since the law would make him 
master of herself and her possessions. The curate 
would serve admirably; he would make a pretty 
pet and no more. He could keep her accounts too. 
She was always in a muddle with money. The 
method she had devised of keeping tally by means of 
notched sticks was most untrustworthy. And, in¬ 
cidentally, if he really were a saint her hereafter 
was assured. God could never condemn the wedded 
wife of a saint and clergyman to Hell; it wouldn’t 
be decent. She would marry that young man. 

She began the assault next day by paying her over¬ 
due tithes and throwing in a duck as makeweight. 
Two days later she was up again with a gift of a 
goose, and on the following Sunday she presented 
the astonished clerk with eightpennorth of ginger¬ 
breads. Since eating was the occupation nearest to 
the widow’s heart she sought to touch the curate’s 
by showering food upon him. Something edible went 
to the Deanery at least twice a week, occasionally 
by a hind, but more often Teresa took it herself. 


60 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


A fortnight before Whitsuntide Teresa, in chasing 
an errant boar out of the yard, kicked too violently, 
snapped her leg and was laid up for three months. 
Temporarily unable to reduce the curate by her per¬ 
sonal charms she determined to let her gifts speak 
for her, doubled the offerings, and eggs, fowls, but¬ 
ter, cheese and hams passed from the farm to the 
Deanery in a constant stream. Lying in bed with 
nothing to do, the invalid’s thoughts ran largely 
upon the clerk. She remembered him standing in 
the pulpit that Easter Sunday, uttering lovely, if 
unintelligible words, slim and delicate, the benedic¬ 
tory beam on his flaxen poll; the more she pictured 
him the more ethereally beautiful did he become. 
He would make a charming toy. 

As soon as she could hobble about she put on 
her best dress (cherry satin), and, taking the bull 
by the horns, invited her intended to dinner. She 
would settle matters without further ado. The 
young man obeyed the summons with feelings di¬ 
vided between fear and determination; he knew 
perfectly well what he was in for. Nobody but an 
utter fool could have mistaken the meaning of the 
sighs and glances the big widow had thrown when 
visiting him before her accident. There was no 
finesse about Teresa. She wanted to marry him, 
and prudence told him to let her. Two farms and 
four hundred pounds a year—so rumor had it—the 
catch of the district and he only a poor clerk. He 
was sick of poverty—Teresa’s bounty had shown 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


61 


him what it was to live well—and he dreaded re¬ 
turning to the old way of things. Moreover he 
admired her, she was so bold, so luscious, so darkly 
handsome, possessed of every physical quality he 
lacked. But he was afraid of her for all that—if 
she ever got really angry with him, good Lord! 

It took every ounce of determination he owned to 
drive his feet down the hill to Bosnia; twice he 
stopped and turned to go back. He was a timid 
young man. His proscrastination made him late 
for dinner. When he reached the farm, the meal 
had already been served. His hostess was hard at 
work; she would not have delayed five minutes for 
King George himself. She had a mutton bone in 
her hands when the curate entered. She did not 
notice him for the moment, so engrossed was she, 
but tore off the last shred of meat, scrunched the 
bone with her teeth and bit out the marrow. The 
curate reeled against the door post, emitting an in¬ 
voluntary groan. Teresa glanced up and stared at 
him, her black eyebrows meeting. 

Who was this stranger wabbling about in her 
doorway, his watery eyes popping out of his podgy 
face, his fleshy knees knocking together, his dingy 
coat stretched tightly across his protruding stomach? 
A lost inn-keeper? A strayed tallow chandler? 
No, by his cloth he was a clerk. Slowly she recog¬ 
nized him. He was her curate, ecod! Her pretty 
toy! Her slim, transparent saint developed into 
this corpulent earthling! Fat^ ye Gods! She hurled 


62 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the bone at his head—which was unreasonable, see¬ 
ing it was she had fattened him. 

The metamorphosed curate turned and bolted out 
of the house, through the yard and back up the hill 
for home. 

“My God,” he panted as he ran, “biting bones 
up with her teeth, with her teeth —my God, it might 
have been meP* 

That was the end of that. 


s 


CHAPTER VI 


I N the meanwhile the Penhale brothers grew and 
grew. Martha took a sketchy charge of their 
infancy, but as soon as they could toddle they 
made use of their legs to gain the out o’ doors and 
freedom. At first Martha basted them generously 
when they came in for meals, but they soon put a 
stop to that by not showing up at the fixed feeding 
times, watching her movements from coigns of van¬ 
tage in the yard and robbing the larder when her 
back was turned. .Martha, thereupon, postponed 
the whippings till they came in to bed. Once more 
they defeated her by not coming in to bed; when 
trouble loomed they spent the night in the loft, 
curled up like puppies in the hay. Martha could 
not reach them there. She dared not trust herself 
on the crazy ladder and Bohenna would give her 
no assistance; he was hired to tend stock, he said, 
not children. 

For all that the woman caught the little savages 
now and again, and when she did she dressed them 
faithfully with a birch of her own making. But 
she did not long maintain her physical advantage. 

One afternoon when Ortho was eight and Eli 
six she caught them red-handed. The pair had been 
out all the morning, sailing cork boats and mud- 
63 


64 


THE OWLS^ HOUSE 


larking in the marshes. They had had no dinner. 
Martha knew they would be homing wolfish hungry 
some time during the afternoon and that a raid 
was indicated. There were two big apple pasties 
on the hearth waiting the mistress’ supper and 
Martha was prepared to sell her life for them, since 
it was she that got the blame if anything ran short 
and she had suffered severely of late. 

At about three o’clock she heard the old sheep 
dog lift up its voice in asthmatic excitement and 
then cease abruptly; it had recognized friends. The 
raiders were at hand. She hid behind the settle 
near the door. Presently she saw a dark patch 
slide across the east door-post—the shadow of 
Ortho’s head. The shadow slid on until she knew 
he was peering into the kitchen. Ortho entered 
the kitchen, stepping delicately, on bare, grimy toes. 
He paused and glanced round the room. His eye 
lit on the pasties and sparkled. He moved a chair 
carefully, so that his line of retreat might be clear, 
beckoned to the invisible Eli, and went straight for 
the mark. As his hands closed on the loot Martha 
broke cover. Ortho did not look frightened or 
even surprised; he did not drop the pasty. He 
grinned, dodged behind the table and shouted to 
his brother, who took station in the doorway. 

Martha, squalling horrid threats, hobbled half¬ 
way round the table after Ortho, who skipped in the 
opposite direction and nearly escaped her. She just 
cut him off in time, but she could not save the pasty. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


65 


He slung it under her arm to his confederate and 
dodged behind the table again. Eli was fat and 
short-legged. Martha could have caught him with 
ease, but she did not try, knowing that if she did 
Ortho would have the second pasty. As it was, 
Ortho was hopelessly cornered; he should suffer for 
both. Ortho was behind the table again and diffi¬ 
cult to reach. She thought of the broom, but it 
was at the other side of the kitchen; did she turn 
to get it Ortho would slip away. 

Eli reappeared in the doorway lumpish and stolid; 
he had hidden the booty and come back to see the 
fun. Martha considered, pushed the table against 
the wall and upturned it. Ortho sprang for the 
door, almost gained it, but not quite. Martha 
grasped him by the tail of his smock, drew him to 
her and laid on. But Ortho, instead of squirming 
and whimpering as was his wont, put up a fight. 
He fought like a little wild cat, wriggling and snarl¬ 
ing, scratching with toes and finger nails. Martha 
had all she could do to hold him, but hold him she 
did, dragged him across the floor to the peg where 
hung her birch (a bunch of hazel twigs) and gave 
him a couple of vicious slashes across the seat of 
his pants. She was about to administer a third 
when an excruciating pain nipped her behind her 
bare left ankle. She yelled, dropped Ortho and the 
birch as if white-hot, and grabbed her leg. In the 
skin of the tendon was imprinted a semi-circle of 
red dents—Eli’s little sharp teeth marks. She 


66 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


limped round the kitchen for some minutes, vowing 
dreadful vengeance on the brothers, who, in the 
meanwhile, were sitting astride the yard gate munch¬ 
ing the pasty. 

The pair slept in the barn for a couple of nights, 
and then, judging the dame’s wrath to have passed, 
slipped in on the third. But Martha was waiting 
for Eli, birch in hand, determined to carry out her 
vengeance. It did not come off. She caught Eli, 
but Ortho flew to the rescue this time. The two 
little fiends hung on her like weasels, biting, claw¬ 
ing, squealing with fury, all but dragging the clothes 
off her. She appealed to Teresa for help, but the 
big woman would do nothing but laugh. It was as 
good as a bear-bait. Martha shook the brothers 
off somehow and lowered her flag for good. Next 
day Ortho burnt the birch with fitting ceremony, and 
for some years the brothers ran entirely wild. 

If Martha failed to inspire any respect in the 
young Penhales they stood in certain awe of her 
daughter Wany on account of her connection with 
the supernatural. In the first place she was a 
changeling herself. In the second. Providence hav¬ 
ing denied her wits, had bequeathed her an odd 
sense. She was weather-wise; she felt heat, frost, 
rain or wind days in advance; her veins might have 
run with mercury. In the third place, and which 
was far more attractive to the boys, she knew the 
movements of all the “small people” in the valley 
^—the cows told her. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


67 


The cows were Wany’s special province. She 
could not be trusted with any housework however 
simple, because she could not bring her mind to it 
for a minute. She had no control over her mind 
at all; it was forever wandering over the hills and 
far away in dark, enchanted places. 

But cows she could manage, and every morning 
the cows told her what had passed in the half-world 
the night before. 

There were two tribes of “small people’’ in the 
Keigwin Valley, Buccas and Pixies. In the Buccas 
there was no harm; they were poor foreigners, the 
souls of the first Jew miners, condemned for their 
malpractices to perpetual slavery underground. 
They inhabited a round knoll formed of rocks and 
rubble thrown up by the original Penhale and were 
seldom seen, even by the cows, for they had no 
leisure and their work lay out of sight in the earth’s 
dark, dripping tunnels. Once or twice the cows 
had glimpsed a swarthy, hook-nosed old face, caked 
in red ore and seamed with sweat, gazing wistfully 
through a crack in the rocks—but that was all. 
Sometimes, if, under Wany’s direction, you set your 
ear to the knoll and listened intently, you could hear 
a faint thump and scrape far underground—the 
Buccas’ picks at work. Bohenna declared these 
sounds emanated from badgers, but Bohenna was 
of the earth earthy, a clod of clods. 

The Pixies lived by day among the tree roots at 
the north end of Bosnia woods, a sprightly but vin- 


68 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


dictlve people. At night they issued from a hollow 
oak stump, danced in their green ball rooms, paid 
visits to distant kinsfolk or made expeditions against 
offending mortals. The cows, lying out all night in 
the marshes, saw them going and coming. There 
were hundreds of them, the cows said; they wore 
green jerkins and red caps and rode rabbits, all 
but the king and queen, who were mounted on white 
hares. They blew on horns as they galloped, and 
the noise of them was like a flock of small birds 
singing. On moonless nights a cloud of fireflies 
sped above them to light the way. The cows heard 
them making their plans as they rode afield, laugh¬ 
ing and boasting as they returned, and reported to 
Wany, who passed it on to the spellbound brothers. 

But this did not exhaust the night life in the 
valley. According to Wany, other supernaturals 
haunted the neighborhood, specters, ghosts, men 
who had sold their souls to the devil, folk who 
had died with curses on them, or been murdered 
and could not rest. There was a demon huntsman 
who rode a great black stallion behind baying hell¬ 
hounds; a woman who sat by Red Pool trying to 
wash the blood off her fingers; a baby who was 
heard crying but never seen. Even the gray druid 
stones she invested with periodic life. On such and 
such a night the tall Pipers stalked across the fields 
and played to the Merry Maidens who danced 
round thrice; the Men-an-Tol whistled; the Logan 
rocked; up on misty hills barrows opened and old 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


69 


Cornish giants stepped out and dined hugely, with 
the cromlechs for tables and the stars for tapers. 

The stories had one virtue, namely that they 
brought the young Penhales home punctually at set 
of sun. The wild valley they roamed so fearlessly 
by day assumed a different aspect when the en¬ 
chanted hours of night drew on; inanimate objects 
stirred and drew breath, rocks took on the look of 
old men’s faces, thorn bushes changed into witches, 
shadows harbored nameless, crouching things. The 
creak of a bough sent chills down their spines, the 
hoot of an owl made them jump, a patch of moon¬ 
light on a tree trunk sent them huddling together, 
thinking of the ghost lady; the bark of a fox and a 
cow crashing through undergrowth set their hearts 
thumping for fear of the demon huntsman. If 
caught by dusk they turned their coats inside out 
and religiously observed all the rites recommended 
by Wany as charms against evil spirits. If they 
were not brought up in the love of God they were 
at least taught to respect the devil. 

With the exception of this spiritual concession 
the Penhale brothers knew no restraint; they ran 
as wild as stoats. They arose with the sun, stuffed 
odds and ends of food in their pockets and were 
seen no more while daylight lasted. 

In spring there was plenty of bird’s-nesting to be 
done up the valley. Every other tree held a nest 
of some sort, if you only knew where to look, up 
in the forks of the ashes and elms, in hollow boles 


70 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


and rock crevices, cunningly hidden in dense ivy- 
clumps or snug behind barbed entanglements of 
thorn. Bohenna, a predatory naturalist, marked 
down special nests for them, taught them to set 
bird and rabbit snares and how to tickle trout. 

In spring they hunted gulls’ eggs as well round 
the Luddra Head, swarming perpendicular cliffs 
with prehensile toes and fingers hooked into cracks, 
wriggling on their stomachs along dizzy foot-wide 
shelves, leaping black crevices with the assurance 
of chamois. It was an exciting pursuit with the 
sheer drop of two hundred feet or so below one, 
a sheer drop to jagged rock ledges over which the 
green rollers poured with the thunder of heavy 
artillery and then poured back, a boil of white water 
and seething foam. An exciting pursuit with the 
back draught of a southwesterly gale doing its ut¬ 
most to scoop you off the cliffside, and gull mothers 
diving and shrieking in your face, a clamorous snow¬ 
storm, trying to shock you off your balance by the 
whir of their wings and the piercing suddenness of 
their cries. 

The brothers spent most of the summer at Monks 
Cove playing with the fisher children, bathing and 
scrambling along the coast. The tide ebbing left 
many pools, big and little, among the rocks, clear 
basins enameled with white and pink sea lichen, 
studded with limpets, yellow snails, ruby and emer¬ 
ald anemones. Delicate fronds of colored weed 
grew in these salt-water gardens, tiny green crabs 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 71 

scuttered along the bottom, gravel-hued bull-cod 
darted from shadow to shadow. They spent tense 
if fruitless hours angling for the bull-cod with bent 
pihs, limpet baited. In the largest pool they learnt 
to swim. When they were sure of themselves they 
took to the sea itself. 

Their favorite spot was a narrow funnel between 
two low promontories, up which gulf the rollers 
raced to explode a white puff of spray through a 
blow-hole at the end. At the mouth of the funnel 
stood a rock they called “The Chimney,” the top 
standing eight feet above low water level. This 
made an ideal diving place. You stood on the 
“Chimney Pot,” looked down through glitters and 
glints of reflected sunshine, down through four 
fathoms of bottle-green water, down to where fan¬ 
tastic pennants of bronze and purple weed rippled 
and purled and smooth pale bowlders gleamed in 
the swaying light—banners and skulls of drowned 
armies. You dived, pierced cleanly through the 
green deeps, a white shooting star trailing silver 
bubbles. Down you went, down till your fingers 
touched the weed banners, curved and came up, saw 
the water changing from green to amber as you 
rose, burst into the blaze and glitter of sunlight 
with the hiss of a breaker in your ears, saw it curv¬ 
ing over you, turned and went shoreward shout¬ 
ing, slung by giant arms, wallowing in milky foam, 
plumed with diamond spray. Then a quick dash 
sideways out of the sparkling turmoil into a quiet 


72 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


eddy and ashore at your leisure to bask on the rocks 
and watch the eternal surf beating on the Twelve 
Apostles and the rainbows glimmering in the haze 
of spindrift that hung above them. 

Porpoises went by, skimming the surface with 
beautiful, lazy curves, solitary cormorants paddled 
past, popping under and reappearing fifty yards 
away, with suspicious lumps in the throat. Now 
and then a shoal of pilchards crawled along the 
coast, a purple stain in the blue, with a cloud of 
vociferous gannets hanging over it, diving like 
stones, rising and poising, glimmering in the sun 
like silver tinsel. Sometimes a brown seal cruised 
along, sleek, round-headed, big-eyed, like a negro 
baby. 

There was the Channel traffic to watch as well, 
smacks, schooners, ketches and snows, all manner 
of rigs and craft; Tyne collier brigs, grimy as chim¬ 
ney-sweeps; smart Falmouth packets carrying mails 
to and from the world’s ends; an East Indiaman, 
maybe, nine months from the Hooghly, wallowing 
leisurely home, her quarters a-glitter of “ginger¬ 
bread work,” her hold redolent with spices; and 
sometimes a great First-Rate with triple rows of 
gun-ports, an admiral’s flag flying and studding sails 
set, rolling a mighty bow-wave before her. 

Early one summer morning they heard the boom 
of guns and round Black Cam came a big Breton 
lugger under a tremendous press of sail, leaping the 
short seas like a greyhound. On her weather quar- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE' 


73 


ter hung a King’s Cutter, gaff-topsail and ring-tail 
set, a tower of swollen canvas. A tongue of flame 
darted from the Breton’s counter, followed by a 
mushroom of smoke and a dull crash. A jet of 
white water leapt thirty feet in the air on the cut¬ 
ter’s starboard bow, then another astern of her and 
another and another. She seemed to have run 
among a school of spouting whales, but in reality 
it was the ricochets of a single round-shot. The 
cutter’s bow-chaser replied, and jets spouted all 
round the lugger. The King’s ship was trying to 
crowd the Breton ashore and looked in a fair way 
to do so. To the excited boys it appeared that the 
lugger must inevitably strike the Twelve Apostles 
did she hold her course. She held on, passed into 
the drag of the big seas as they gathered to hurl 
themselves on the reef. Every moment the watch¬ 
ers expected to see her caught and crashed to splin¬ 
ters on the jagged anvil. She rose on a roaring 
wave crest, hung poised above the reef for a breath¬ 
less second and clawed by, shaking the water from 
her scuppers. 

The Cove boys cheered the lugger as she raced 
by, waving strips of seaweed and dancing with joy. 
They were not so much for the French as against 
the Preventive; a revenue cutter was their heredi¬ 
tary foe, a spoke in the Wheel of Fortune. 

“Up the Froggy,” they yelled. “Up Johnny 
Roscoff I Give him saltpeter soup Moosoo! Hur¬ 
rah! Hooroo!^’ 


74 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


The two ships foamed out of sight behind the 
next headland, the boom of* their pieces sounding 
fainter and fainter. 

Those were good days for the Penhale brothers, 
the days of early boyhood. 


CHAPTER VII 


O rtho and Wany were in Penzance looking 
for cows that had been taken by the Press 
gang, when they met the Pope of Rome 
wearing a plumed hat and Teresa’s second best dress. 
He had an iron walking stick in his hand with a 
negro head carved at the top and an ivory ferrule, 
and every time he tapped the road it rang under 
him. 

“Hollow, you see,” said His Holiness. “Eaten 
away by miners and Buccas—scandalous! One 
more convulsion like the Lisbon earthquake of fifty- 
five and we shall all fall in. Everything is hollow, 
when you come to think of it—cups, kegs, cannon, 
ships, churches, crowns and heads—everything. We 
shall not only fall in but inside out. If you don’t 
believe me, listen.” 

Whereupon he gathered his skirts and ran up 
Market Jew Street laying about him with the iron 
stick, hitting the ground, the houses and bystanders 
on the head, and everything'he touched rumbled like 
a big or little gong, in proportion to its size. Finally 
he hit the Market House; it exploded and Ortho 
woke up. 

There was a full gale blowing from the south¬ 
west and the noise of the sea was rolling up the 
75 


76 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


valley in roaring waves. The Bosnia trees creaked 
and strained. A shower of broken twigs hit the 
window and the wind thudded on the pane like a 
fist. Ortho turned over on his other side and was 
just burying his head under the pillow when he heard 
the explosion again. It was a different note from 
the boom of the breakers, sharper. He had heard 
something like that before—where? Then he re¬ 
membered the Breton with the cutter in chase— 
guns! A chair fell over in his mother’s room. She 
was up. A door slammed below, boots thumped up¬ 
stairs, Bohenna shouted something through his 
mother’s door and clumped down hurriedly. Ortho 
could not hear all he said, but he caught two essen¬ 
tial words, “Wreck” and “Cove.” More noise on 
the stairs and again the house door slammed; his 
mother had gone. He shook Eli awake. 

“There’s a ship ashore down to Cove,” he said; 
“banging off guns she was. Mother and Ned’s 
gone. Come on.” 

Eli was not anxious to leave his bed; he was 
comfortable and sleepy. “We couldn’t do nothing,” 
he protested. 

“Might see some foreigners drowned,” said 
Ortho optimistically. “She might be a pirate like 
was sunk in Newlyn last year, full of blacks and 
Turks.” 

“They’d kill and eat us,” said Eli. 

Ortho shook his head. “They’ll be drowned first 
—and if they ain’t Ned’ll wrastle ’em.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


77 


In settlement of further argument he placed his 
foot in the small of his brother’s back and projected 
him onto the floor. They dressed in the dark, fum¬ 
bled their way downstairs and set off down the val¬ 
ley. In the shelter of the Bosnia woods they made 
good progress; it was comparatively calm there, 
though the treetops were a-toss and a rotten bough 
hurtled to earth a few feet behind them. Once 
round the elbow and clear of the timber, the gale 
bent them double; it rushed, shrieking, up the fun¬ 
nel of the hills, pushed them round and backwards. 
Walking against it was like wading against a strong 
current. The road was the merest track, not four 
feet at its widest, littered with rough bowlders, 
punctuated with deep holes. The brothers knew 
every twist and trick of the path, but in the dark 
one can blunder in one’s own bedroom; moreover 
the wind was distorting everything. They tripped 
and stumbled, were slashed across the face by fly¬ 
ing whip-thongs of bramble, torn by lunging thorn 
boughs, pricked by dancing gorse-bushes. Things 
suddenly invested with malignant animation bobbed 
out of the dark, hit or scratched one and bobbed 
back again. The night was full of mad terror. 

Halfway to the Cove, Ortho stubbed his toe for 
the third time, got a slap in the eye from a black¬ 
thorn and fell into a puddle. He wished he hadn’t 
come and proposed that they should return. But 
Eli wouldn’t hear of it. He wasn’t enjoying him¬ 
self any more than his brother, but he was going 


78 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


through with it. He made no explanation, but 
waddled on. Ortho let him get well ahead and then 
called him back, but Eli did not reply. Ortho 
wavered. The thought of returning through those 
creaking woods all alone frightened him. He 
thought of all the Things-that-went-by-Night, of 
hell-hounds, horsemen and witches. The air was 
full of witches on broomsticks and demons on black 
stallions stampeding up the valley on a dreadful 
hunt. He could hear their blood-freezing halloos, 
the blare of horns, the baying of hounds. He 
wailed to Eli to stop, and trotted, shivering, after 
him. 

The pair crawled into Monks Cove at last plas¬ 
tered with mud, their clothes torn to rags. A feeble 
pilchard-oil “chill” burnt in one or two windows, 
but the cottages were deserted. Spindrift, mingled 
with clots of foam, was driving over the roofs in 
sheets. The wind pressed like a hand on one’s 
mouth; it was scarcely possible to breathe facing 
it. Several times the boys were forced down on all 
fours to avoid being blown over backwards. The 
roar of the sea was deafening, appalling. Gleam¬ 
ing hills of surf hove out of the void in quick suc¬ 
cession, toppled, smashed, flooded the beach with 
foam and ran back, sucking away the sands. 

The small beach was thronged with people; all 
the Covers were there, men, women and children, 
also a few farm-folk, drawn by the guns. They 


THE> OWLS’ HOUSE 


79 


sheltered behind bowlders, peered seawards, and 
shouted in each other’s ears. 

“Spanisher, or else Portingal,” Ortho heard a 
man bellow. 

“Jacky’s George seen she off Cribba at sundown. 
Burnt a tar barrel and fired signals southwest of 
Apostles—dragging by her lights. She’ll bring up 
presently and then part—no cables won’t stand this. 
The Minstrel’ll have her.” 

“No, the Carracks, with this set,” growled a sec¬ 
ond. “Carracks for a hundred poun’. They’ll crack 
she like a nut.” 

“Carracks, Minstrel or Shark’s Fin, she’m ours** 
said the first. “Harken!” 

Came a crash from the thick darkness seawards, 
followed a grinding noise and second crash. The 
watchers hung silent for a moment, as though awed, 
and then sprang up shouting. 

“Struck!” 

“Carracks have got her!” 

“Please God a general cargo!” 

“Shan’t be long now, my dears, pickin’s for one 
and all.” 

Men tied ropes round their waists, gave the ends 
to their women-folk and crouched like runners 
awaiting the signal. 

A dark object was tossed high on the crest of a 
breaker, dropped on the beach, dragged back and 
rolled up again. 


80 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Half a dozen men scampered towards it and 
dragged it in, a ship’s pinnace smashed to splinters. 
Part of a carved rail came ashore, a poop-ladder, 
a litter of spars and a man with no head. 

These also were hauled above the surf line; the 
wreckers wanted a clear beach. Women set to 
work on the spars, slashing off tackle, quarreling 
over the possession of valuable ropes and block. A 
second batch of spars washed in with three more 
bodies tangled amongst them, battered out of shape. 
Then a mass of planking, timbers, barrel staves, 
some bedding and, miraculously, a live dog. Sud¬ 
denly the surf went black with bobbing objects; the 
cargo was coming in—barrels. 

A sea that will play bowls with half-ton rocks 
will toss wine casks airily. The breakers flung them 
on the beach; they trundled back down the slope 
and were spat up again. The men rushed at them, 
whooping; rushed right into the surf up to their 
waists, laid hold of a prize and clung on; were 
knocked over, sucked under, thrown up and finally 
dragged out by the women and ancients pulling like 
horses on the life-lines. A couple of tar barrels 
came ashore among the others. Teresa, who was 
much in evidence, immediately claimed them, and 
with the help of some old ladies piled the loose 
planking on the wreck of the pinnace, saturated the 
whole with tar and set it afire to light the good 
work. In a few minutes the gale had fanned up 
a royal blaze. That done, she knotted a salvaged 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


81 


halliard about Bohenna, and with Davy, the second 
farm hand, Teresa and the two boys holding on to 
the shore end, he went into the scramble with the 
rest. 

Barrels were spewed up by every wave, the ma¬ 
jority stove in, but many intact. The fisher-folk 
fastened on them like bulldogs, careless of risk. 
One man was stunned, another had his leg broken. 
An old widow, having nobody to work for her and 
maddened at the sight of all this treasure-trove go¬ 
ing to others, suddenly threw sanity to the winds, 
dashed into the surf, butted a man aside and flung 
herself on a cask. The cask rolled out with the 
back-drag, the good dame with it. A breaker burst 
over them and they went out of sight in a boil of 
sand, gravel and foam. Bohenna plunged after 
them, was twice swept off his feet, turned head over 
heels and bumped along the bottom, choking, the 
sand stinging his face like small shot. He groped 
out blindly, grasped something solid and clung on. 
Teresa, feeling more than she could handle on her 
line, yelled for help. A dozen sprang to her assist¬ 
ance, and with a tug they got Bohenna out, Bohenna 
clinging to the old woman, she still clinging to her 
barrel. She lay on the sand, her arms about her 
prize, three parts drowned, spitting salt water at 
her savior. 

He laughed. “All right, mother; shan’t snatch 
it from ’ee. ’Tis your plunder sure ’nough.” Took 
breath and plunged back into the surf. The flow 


82 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of cargo stopped, beams still came in, a top mast, 
more shattered bodies, some lengths of cable, bed¬ 
ding, splinters of cabin paneling and a broken chest, 
valueless odds and ends. The wreckers set about 
disposing of the sound casks; men staggered off 
carrying them on rough stretchers, women and chil¬ 
dren rolled others up the beach, the coils of rope 
disappeared. Davy, it turned out, had brought 
three farm horses and left them tied up in a pilchard- 
press. These were led down to the beach now, 
loaded (two barrels a horse), and taken home by 
the men. 

Teresa still had a cask in hand. Bohenna could 
hardly make a second journey before dawn. More¬ 
over, it was leaking, so she stove the head in with 
a stone and invited everybody to help themselves. 
Some ran to the houses for cups and jugs, but others 
could not wait, took off their sodden shoes and baled 
out the contents greedily. It was overproof Oporto 
wine and went to their unaccustomed heads in no 
time. Teresa, imbibing in her wholesale fashion, 
was among the first to feel the effects. She began 
to sing. She sang “Prithee Jack, prithee Tom, pass 
the can around” and a selection of sottish ditties 
which had found favor in Portsmouth taverns, suit¬ 
ing her actions to the words. From singing she 
passed to dancing, uttering sharp “Ai-ees” and 
“Ah-has” and waving and thumping her detached 
shoe as though it were a tambourine. She infected 
the others. They sang the first thing that came into 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


83 


their heads and postured and staggered in an en¬ 
deavor to imitate her, hoarse-throated men dripping 
with sea water, shrill young women, gnarled bel¬ 
dames dribbling at the mouth, loose-jointed strip¬ 
lings, cracked-voiced ancients contracted with rheu¬ 
matism, squeaky boys and girls. Drink inspired 
them to strange cries, extravagant steps and ges¬ 
ticulations. They capered round the barrel, dipping 
as they passed, drank and capered again, each ac¬ 
cording to his or her own fashion. Teresa, the 
presiding genius, lolled over the cask, panting, 
shrieking with laughter, whooping her victims on 
to fresh excesses. They hopped and staggered 
round and round, chanting and shouting, swaying in 
the wind which swelled their smocks with grotesque 
protuberances, tore the women’s hair loose and set 
their blue cloaks flapping. Some tumbled and rose 
again, others lay where they fell. They danced in 
a mist of flying spindrift and sand with the black 
cliffs for background, the blazing wreckage for light, 
the fifes and drums of the gale for orchestra. It 
might have been a scene from an infernal ballet, a 
dance of witches and devils, fire-lit, clamorous, aban¬ 
doned. 

The eight drowned seamen, providers of this 
good cheer, lay in a row apart, their dog nosing 
miserably from one to the other, wondering why 
they were so indifferent when all this merriment was 
toward, and barking at any one who approached 
them. 


84 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


When the Preventive men arrived with dawn they 
thought at first it was not a single ship that had 
foundered but a fleet, so thick was the beach with 
barrel staves and bodies, but even as they stared 
some corpses revived, sat up, rose unsteadily and 
made snake tracks for the cottages; they were 
merely the victims of Teresa’s bounty. Teresa her¬ 
self was fast asleep behind a rock when the Pre¬ 
ventive came, but she woke up as the sun rose in 
her eyes and spent a pleasant hour watching their 
fruitless hunt for liquor and offering helpful sug¬ 
gestions. 

Hunger gnawing her, she whistled her two sons 
as if they had been dogs and made for home, tacking 
from side to side of the path like a ship beating 
to windward and cursing her Maker every time she 
stumbled. The frightened boys kept fifty yards in 
rear. 

In return for Teresa’s insults the Preventives 
paid Bosnia a visit later in the day. Teresa, re¬ 
freshed by some hours’ sleep, followed the searchers 
round the steading, jeering at them while they 
prodded sticks into hay-stacks and patches of newly 
dug ground or rapped floors and walls for hollow 
places. She knew they would never find those kegs; 
they were half a mile away, sunk in a muddy pool 
further obscured by willows. Bohenna had walked 
the horses upstream and down so that there should 
be no telltale tracks. The Preventives were drawing 
a blank cover. It entertained Teresa to see them 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


85 


getting angrier and angrier. She was prodigal with 
jibes and personalities. The Riding Officer retired 
at dusk, informing the widow that it would give 
him great pleasure to tear her tongue out and fry 
it for breakfast. Teresa was highly amused. Her 
good humor recovered and that evening she broached 
a cask, hired a fiddler and gave a dance in the 
kitchen. 


CHAPTER VIII 


T he Penhale brothers grew and grew, put off 
childish things and began to seek the com¬ 
pany of men worshipfully and with emula¬ 
tion, as puppies imitate grown dogs. Ortho’s first 
hero was a fisherman whose real name was George 
Baragwanath, but who was invariably referred to 
as “Jacky’s George,” although his father, the pos¬ 
sessive Jacky, was long dead and forgotten and 
had been nothing worth mentioning when alive. 

Jacky’s George was a remarkable man. At the 
age of seventeen, while gathering driftwood below 
Pedn Boar, he had seen an intact ship’s pinnace 
floating in. The weather was moderate, but there 
was sufficient swell on to stave the boat did it strike 
the outer rocks^—^^and it was a good boat. The only 
way to save it was to swim off, but Jacky’s George, 
like most fishermen, could not swim. He badly 
wanted that boat; it would make him independent 
of Jacky, whose methods were too slow to catch a 
cold, leave alone fish. Moreover, there was a girl 
involved. He stripped off his clothes, gathered the 
bundle of driftwood in his arms, flopped into the 
back wash of a roller and kicked out, frog-fashion, 
knowing full well that his chances of reaching the 
boat were slight and that if he did not reach it he 
would surely drown. 


87 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

He reached the boat, however, scrambled up over 
the stern and found three men asleep on the bottom. 
His heart fell like lead. He had risked his life 
for nothing; he’d still have to go fishing with the 
timorous Jacky and the girl must wait. 

“Here,” said he wearily to the nearest sleeper. 
“Here, rouse up; you’m close ashore ... be scat 
in a minute.” 

The sleeper did not stir. Jacky’s George kicked 
him none too gently. Still the man did not move. 
He then saw that he was dead; they were all dead. 
The boat was his after all! He got the oars out 
and brought the boat safely into Monks Cove. 
Quite a sensation it made—Jacky’s George, stark 
naked, pulling in out of the sea fog with a cargo 
of dead men. He married that girl forthwith, was 
a father at eighteen, a grandfather at thirty-five. 
In the interval he got nipped by the Press Gang 
in a Falmouth grog shop and sent round the world 
with Anson in the Centurion, rising to the rank of 
quarter-gunner. One of the two hundred survivors 
of that lucrative voyage, he was paid off with a 
goodly lump of prize money, and, returning to his 
native cove, opened an inn with a florid, cock-hatted 
portrait of his old commander for sign. 

Jacky’s George, however, was not inclined to a 
life of bibulous ease ashore. He handed the inn 
over to his wife and went to sea again as gunner 
in a small Falmouth privateer mounting sixteen 
pieces. Off Ushant one February evening they were 


88 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


chased by a South Maloman of twice their weight 
of metal, which was overhauling them hand over fist 
when her foremast went by the board and up she 
went in the wind. Jacky’s George was responsible 
for the shot that disabled the Breton, but her part¬ 
ing broadside disabled Jacky’s George; he lost an 
arm. 

He was reported to have called for rum, hot tar 
and an ax. These having been brought, he gulped 
the rum, chopped off the wreckage of his forearm, 
soused the spurting stump in tar and fainted. He 
recovered rapidly, fitted a boat-hook head to the 
stump and was at work again in no time, but the 
accident made a longshoreman of him; he went no 
more a-roving in letters of marque, but fished off¬ 
shore with his swarm of sons. Ortho Penhale 
occasionally going with him. 

Physically Jacky’s George was a sad disappoint¬ 
ment. Of all the Covers he was the least like what 
he ought to have been, the last man you would have 
picked out as the desperado who had belted the 
globe, sacked towns and treasure ships, been master 
gunner of a privateer and killed several times his 
own weight in hand-to-hand combats. He was not 
above five feet three inches in height, a chubby, 
chirpy, red-headed cock-robin of a man who drank 
little, swore less, smiled perpetually and whistled 
wherever he went—even, it was said, at the grave¬ 
side of his own father, in a moment of abstraction 
of course. 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


89 


His wife, who ran the “Admiral Anson” (better 
known as the “Kiddlywink”), was a heavy dark 
woman, twice his size and very downright in her 
opinions. She would roar down a roomful of tipsy 
mariners with ease and gusto, but the least word 
of her smiling little husband she obeyed swiftly and 
in silence. It was the same with his children. 
There were nine of them—two daughters and seven 
sons—all red-headed and freckled like himself, a 
turbulent, independent tribe, paying no man respect 
—but their father. 

Ortho could not fathom the nature of the little 
man’s power over them; he was so boyish himself, 
took such childish delight in their tales of mischief, 
seemed in all that boatload of boys the youngest 
and most carefree. Then one evening he had a 
glimpse of the cock-robin’s other side. They were 
just in from sea, were lurching up from the slip 
when they were greeted by ominous noises issuing 
from the Kiddlywink, the crash of woodwork, 
hoarse oaths, a thump and then growlings as of a 
giant dog worrying a bone. Jacky’s George broke 
into a run, and at the same moment his wife, terri¬ 
fied, appeared at the door and cried out, “Quick! 
Quick do ’eel Murder!” 

Jacky’s George dived past her into the house. 
Ortho, agog for any form of excitement, close be¬ 
hind him. 

The table was lying over on its side, one bench 
was broken and the other tossed, end on, into a 


90 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


corner. On the wet floor, among chips of shattered 
mugs, two men struggled, locked together, a big 
man on top, a small man underneath. The former 
had the latter by the throat, rapidly throttling him. 
The victim’s eyeballs seemed on the point of burst¬ 
ing, his tongue was sticking out. " 

“Tinners!” wailed Mrs. Baragwanath. “Been 
drinkin’ all day—gert stinkin’ toads!” 

^ Jacky’s George did not waste time in wordy re¬ 
monstrance; he got the giant’s chin in the crook 
of his sound arm and triedito wrench it up. Useless; 
the maddened brute was too strong and too heavy. 
The man underneath gave a ghastly, clicking choke. 
In another second there would have been murder 
done in the “Admiral Anson” and a blight would 
fall on that prosperous establishment, killing trade. 
That would never do. Without hesitation its land¬ 
lord settled the matter, drove his stump-hook into 
the giant’s face, gaffed him through the cheek as 
he would a fish. 

“Come off!” said he. 

The man came off. 

“Come on!” He backed out, leading the man 
by the hook. 

“Lift a hand or struggle and I’ll drag your face 
inside out,” said Jacky’s George. “This way, if 
you please.” 

The man followed, bent double, murder in his 
eyes, hands twitching but at his sides. 

At the end of the hamlet Jacky’s George halted. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


91 


“You owe me your neck, mate, but I don’t s’pose 
you’ll thank me, tedd’n in human nature, you would,” 
said he, sadly, as though pained at the ingratitude 
of mortal man. “Go on up that there road till 
you’m out of this place an’ don’t you never come 
back.” 

He freed the hook deftly and jumped clear. 
“Now crowd all canvas, do ’ee.” 

The great tinner put a hand to his bleeding cheek, 
glared at the smiling cock-robin, clenched his fists 
and teeth and took a step forward—one only. A 
stone struck him in the chest, another missed his 
head by an inch. He ducked to avoid a third and 
was hit in the back and thigh, started to retreat at 
a walk, broke into a run and went cursing and stum¬ 
bling up the track, his arms above his head to pro¬ 
tect it from the rain of stones, Goliath pursued by 
seven red-headed little Davids, and all the Cove 
women standing on their doorsteps jeering. 

“Two mugs an’ a bench seat,” Jacky’s George 
commented as he watched his sons speeding the part¬ 
ing guest. “Have to make t’other poor soul pay 
for ’em, I s’pose.” He turned back into the Kid- 
dlywink whistling, “Strawberry leaves make maidens 
fair.” 

Ortho enjoyed going to sea with the Baragwanath 
family; they put such zest into all they did, no 
slovenliness was permitted. Falls and cables were 
neatly* coiled or looped over pins, sail was stowed 
properly, oars tossed man-o’-war fashion, every- 


92 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


thing went with a snap. Furthermore, they took 
chances. For them no humdrum harbor hugging; 
they went far and wide after the fish and sank their 
crab-pots under dangerous ledges no other boat 
would tackle. In anything like reasonable weather 
they dropped a tier or two seaward of the Twelve 
Apostles. Even on the calmest of days there was 
a heavy swell on to the south of the reef, especially 
with the tide making. It was shallow there and 
the Atlantic flood came rolling over the shoal in 
great shining hills. At one moment you were up 
in the air and could see the brown coast with its 
purple indentations for miles, the patchwork fields, 
scattered gray farmhouses, the smoke of furze fires 
and lazy clouds rolling along the high moors. At 
the next moment you were in the lap of a turquoise 
valley, shut out from everything by rushing cliffs 
of water. There were oars, sheets, halliards, back- 
ropes and lines to be pulled on, fighting fish to be 
hauled aboard, clubbed and gaffed. And always 
there was Jacky’s George whistling like a canary, 
pointing out the various rigs of passing vessels, 
spinning yarns of privateer days and of Anson’s 
wonderful voyage, of the taking of Paita City and 
the great plate ship Nuestra Senora de Covadonga. 
And there was the racing. 

Very .jealous of his craft’s reputation was Jacky’s 
George; a hint of defiance from another boat and 
he was after the challenger instanter, even though 
it took him out of his course. Many a good spin 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


93 


did Ortho get coming in from the Cam Base Wolf 
and other outer fishing grounds, backed against the 
weather-side with the Baragwanath boys, living bal¬ 
last, while the gig, trembling from end to end, went 
leaping and swooping over the blue and white hil¬ 
locks on the trail of an ambitious Penberth or Porg- 
warra man. Sheets and weather stays humming in 
the blast, taut and vibrant as guitar strings; sails 
rigid as though carved from wood, lee gunnel all 
but dipping under; dollops of spray bursting aboard 
over the weather bow—tense work, culminating in 
exultation as they crept up on the chase, drew to 
her quarter, came broad abeam and—with derisive 
cheers—passed her. Speed was a mania with the 
cock-robin; he was in perpetual danger of sailing 
the Game Cock under; on one occasion he very 
nearly did. 

They were tearing, close-hauled, through the Run- 
nelstone Passage, after an impudent Mouseholeman, 
when a cross sea suddenly rose out of nowhere and 
popped aboard over the low lee gunnel. In a second 
the boat was full of water; only her gunnels and 
thwarts were visible. It seemed to Ortho that he 
was standing up to his knees in the sea. 

“Luff!” shouted Jacky’s George. 

His eldest son jammed the helm hard down, but 
the boat wouldn’t answer. The way was off her; 
she lay as dead as a log. 

“Leggo sheets!” shouted the father. “Aft all 
hands!” 


94 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Ortho tumbled aft with the Baragwanath boys 
and watched Jacky’s George in a stupor of fright. 
The little man could not be said to move; he flick¬ 
ered, grabbed up an oar, wrenched the boat’s head 
round, broke the crest of an oncoming wave by 
launching the oar blade at it and took the remainder 
in his back. 

“Heave the ballast out an’ bale,” he yelled glee¬ 
fully, sitting in the bows, forming a living bulwark 
against the waves. “Bale till your backs break, my 
jollies.” 

They bailed like furies, baled with the first things 
to hand, line tubs, caps, boots, anything, in the 
meanwhile drifting rapidly towards the towering 
cliffs of Tol-pedn-Penwith. The crash of the break¬ 
ers on the ledges struck terror through Ortho. 
They sounded like a host of ravenous great beasts 
roaring for their prey—him. If the boat did not 
settle under them they would be dashed to pieces 
on those rocks; death was inevitable one way or the 
other. He remembered the Portuguese seamen 
washed in from the Twelve Apostles without heads. 
He would be like that in a few minutes—no head— 
ugh! 

Jacky’s George, jockeying the bows, improvising 
a weather cloth from a spare jib, was singing, “Hey, 
boys, up we go!” This levity in the jaws of de¬ 
struction enraged Ortho. The prospect of immi¬ 
nent death might amuse Jacky’s George, who had 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


95 


eaten a rich slice of life, but Ortho had not and 
was terrified. He felt he was too young to die; 
it was unfair to snatch a mere boy like himself. 
Moreover, it was far too sudden; no warning at all. 
At one moment they were bowling along in the sun¬ 
shine, laughing and happy, and at the next up to 
their waists in water, to all intents dead, cold, head¬ 
less, eaten by crabs—ugh! He thought of Eli up 
the valley, flintlock in hand, dry, happy, safe for 
years and years of fun; thought of the Owls’ House 
bathed in the noon glow, the old dog asleep in the 
sun, pigeons strutting on the thatch, copper pans 
shining in the kitchen—thought of his home, symbol 
of all things comfortable and secure, and promised 
God that if he got out of the mess he would never 
set foot in a boat again. 

The roar of the breakers grew louder and he 
felt cold and sick with fear, but nevertheless baled 
with the best, baled for dear life, realizing for the 
first time how inexpressibly precious life may be. 
Jacky’s George whistled, cracked jokes and sang 
“The Bold British Tar.” He made such a din as 
to drown the noise of the surf. The “British Tar” 
had brave words and a good rousing chorus. The 
boys joined in as they baled; presently Ortho found 
himself singing too. 

Six lads toiling might and main can shift a quan¬ 
tity of water. The gig began to brisk in her move¬ 
ments, to ride easier. Fifty yards off the foam- 


96 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


draped Hella Rock Jacky’s George laid her to her 
course again—but the Mouseholeman was out of 
sight 

No Dundee harpooner, home from a five years’ 
cruise, had a more moving story of perils on the 
deep to tell than did Ortho that night. He stag¬ 
gered about the kitchen, affecting a sea roll, spat 
over his shoulder and told and retold the tale till 
his mother boxed his ears and drove him up to bed. 
Even then he kept Eli awake for two hours, baling 
that boat out over and over again; he had enjoyed 
every moment of it, he said. Nevertheless he did 
not go fishing for a month, but the Baragwanath 
family were dodging off St. Clements Isle before 
sun-up next day, waiting for that Mousehole boat 
to come out of port. When she did they led her 
down to the fishing grounds and then led her home 
again, a tow-rope trailing derisively over the Game 
Cock*s stern. They were an indomitable breed. 

Ortho recovered from his experience off Tol-Pedn 
and, despite his promise to his Maker, went to sea 
occasionally, but that phase of his education was 
nearing its close. Winter and its gales were ap¬ 
proaching, and even the fearless cock-robin seldom 
ventured out. When he did go he took only his four 
eldest boys, departed without ostentation, was gone 
a week or even two, and returned quietly in the 
dead of night. 

“Scilly—^to visit his sister,” was given by Mrs. 
Baragwanath as his destination and object, but it 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


97 


was noted that these demonstrations of brotherly 
affection invariably occurred when the “Admiral 
Anson’s” stock of liquor was getting low. The wise 
drew their own conclusions. Ortho pleaded to be 
taken on one of these mysterious trips, but Jacky’s 
George was adamant, so he had perforce to stop 
at home and follow the Game Cock in imagination 
across the wintry Channel to Guernsey and back 
again through the patrolling frigates, loaded to the 
bends with ankers of gin and brandy. 

Cut off from Jacky’s George, he looked about for 
a fresh hero to worship and lit upon Pyramus Herne. 


CHAPTER IX 


P YRAMUS HERNE was the head of a family 
of gypsy horse dealers that toured the south 
and west of England, appearing regularly in 
the Land’s End district on the heels of the New 
Year. They came not particularly to do business, 
but to feed their horses up for the spring fairs. 
The climate was mild, and Pyramus knew that to 
keep a beast warm is to go halfway towards fat¬ 
tening it. 

He would arrive with a chain of broken-down 
skeletons, tied head to tail, file their teeth, blister 
and fire their game legs and turn them loose in 
the sheltered bottoms for a rest cure. At the end 
of three months, when the bloom was on their new 
coats, he would trim their feet, pull manes and tails, 
give an artistic touch here and there with the shears, 
paint out blemishes, make old teeth look like new 
and depart with a string of apparently gamesome 
youngsters frolicking in his tracks. 

It was his practice to pitch his winter camp in a 
small coppice about two and a half miles north of 
Bosnia. It was no man’s land, sheltered by a wall 
of rocks from the north and east, water was plenti¬ 
ful and the trees provided fuel. Moreover, it was 
secluded, a weighty consideration, for the gypsy 
98 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


99 


dealt in other things besides horses, in the handling 
of which privacy was of the first import. In short 
he was a receiver of stolen goods and valuable arti¬ 
cles of salvage. He gave a better price than the 
Jew junk dealers in Penzance because his travels 
opened a wider market and also he had a reputation 
of never “peaching,” of betraying a customer for 
reward—a reputation far from deserved, be it said, 
but he peached always in secret and with consum¬ 
mate discretion. 

He did lucrative business in salvage in the west, 
but the traffic in stolen goods was slight because 
there were no big towns and no professional thieves. 
The few furtive people who crept by night into 
the little wood seeking the gypsy were mainly thieves 
by accident, victims of sudden overwhelming temp¬ 
tations. They seldom bargained with Pyramus, but 
agreed to the first price offered, thrust the stolen 
articles upon him as if red-hot and were gone, radi¬ 
ant with relief, frequently forgetting to take the 
money. 

“I am like their Christ,” said Pyramus; “they 
come to me to be relieved of their sins.” 

In England of those days gypsies were regarded 
with well-merited suspicion and hunted from pillar 
to post. Pyramus was the exception. He passed 
unmolested up and down his trade routes, for he 
was at particular pains to ingratiate himself with 
the two ruling classes—the law officers and the 
gentry—and, being a clever man, succeeded. 


100 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


The former liked him because once “King” 
Herne joined a fair there would be no trouble with 
the Romanies, also he gave them reliable informa¬ 
tion from time to time. Captain Rudolph, the no¬ 
torious Bath Road highwayman, owed his capture 
and subsequent hanging to Pyramus, as did also a 
score of lesser tobymen. Pyramus made no money 
out of footpads, so he threw them as a sop to Jus¬ 
tice. 

The gentry Pyramus fawned on with the oily cun¬ 
ning of his race. Every man has a joint in his har¬ 
ness, magistrates no less. Pyramus made these 
little weaknesses of the great his special study. One 
influential land owner collected snuff boxes, another 
firearms. Pyramus in his traffickings up and down 
the world kept his eyes skinned for snuff boxes and 
firearms, and, having exceptional opportunities, usu¬ 
ally managed to bring something for each when he 
passed their way, an exquisite casket of tortoise-shell 
and paste, a pair of silver-mounted pistols with To¬ 
ledo barrels. Some men had to be reached by other 
means. 

Lord James Thynne was partial to coursing. 
Pyramus kept an eye lifted for greyhounds, bought 
a dog from the widow of a Somersetshire poacher 
(hung the day before) and Lord James w^on ten 
matches running with it; the Herne tribe were wel¬ 
come to camp on his waste lands forever. 

But his greatest triumph was with Mr. Hugo 
Lorimer, J. P., of Stane, in the county of Hamp- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


101 


shire. Mr. Lorimer was death on gypsies, main¬ 
taining against all reason that they hailed from 
Palestine and were responsible for the Crucifixion. 
He harried them unmercifully. He was not other¬ 
wise a devout man; the persecution of the Romanies 
was his sole form of religious observance. Even 
the astute Pyramus could not melt him, charm he 
never so wisely. 

This worried King Herne, the more so because 
Mr. Lorimer’s one passion was horses—his own 
line of business—and he could not reach him 
through it. 

He could not win the truculent J. P. by selling 
him a good nag cheap because he bred his own and 
would tolerate no other breed. He could not even 
convey a good racing tip to the gentleman because 
he did not bet. The Justice was adamant; Pyramus 
baffled. 

Then one day a change came in the situation. 
The pride of the stud, the crack stallion “Stane Em¬ 
peror,” went down with fever and, despite all min¬ 
istrations, passed rapidly from bad to worse. All 
hope was abandoned. Mr. Lorimer, infinitely more 
perturbed than if his entire family had been in a 
like condition, sat on an upturned bucket in the 
horse’s box and wept. 

To him entered Pyramus, pushing past the 
grooms, fawning, obsequiously sympathetic, white 
with dust. He had heard the dire news at Downton 
and came instanter, spurring. 


102 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Might he^humbly crave a peep at the noble suf¬ 
ferer? . . . Perhaps his poor skill might effect 
something. . . . Had been with horses all his life. 
. . . Had succeeded with many cases abandoned by 
others more learned. ... It was his business and 
livelihood. . . . Would His Worship graciously per¬ 
mit? . . . 

His Worship ungraciously grunted an affirmative. 
Gypsy horse coper full of tricks as a dog of fleas. 
... At all events could make the precious horse 
no worse. . . . Go ahead! 

Pyramus bolted himself in with the animal, and 
in two hours it was standing up, lipping bran-mash 
from his hand, sweaty, shaking, but saved. 

Mr. Hugo Lorimer was all gratitude, his one soft 
spot touched at last. Pyramus must name his own 
reward. Pyramus, both palms upraised in protest, 
would hear of no reward, honored to have been of 
any service to such a gentleman. 

Departed bowing and smirking, the poison he 
had blown through a grating into the horse’s manger 
the night before in one pocket, the antidote in the 
other. 

Henceforward the Herne family plied their trade 
undisturbed within the bounds of Mr. Lorimer’s 
magistracy to the exclusion of all other gypsies and 
throve mightily in consequence. 

He had been at pains to commend himself to 
Teresa Penhale, but had only partly succeeded. She 
was the principal land owner in the valley where 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 103 

he wintered and it was necessary to keep on her 
right side. 

The difficulty with Teresa was that, being of 
gypsy blood herself, she was proof against gypsy 
trickery and exceeding suspicious of her own kind. 
He tried to present her with a pair of barbaric gold 
earrings, by way of throwing bread upon the waters, 
but she asked him how much he wanted for them 
and he made the fatal mistake of saying “nothing.” 

“Nothing to-day and my skin to-morrow?” she 
sneered. “Outside with you!” 

Pyramus went on the other tack, pretended not 
to recognize her as a Romni, addressed her in Eng¬ 
lish, treated her with extravagant deference and saw 
to it that his family did the same. 

It worked. Teresa rather fancied herself as a 
“lady”—though she could never go to the trouble 
of behaving like one—and it pleased her to find 
somebody who treated her as such. It pleased her 
to have the great King Herne back his horse out 
of her road and remain, hat in hand, till she had 
passed by, to have his women drop curtsies and his 
bantlings bob. It worked—temporarily. Pyramus 
had touched her abundant conceit, lulled the Chris¬ 
tian half of her with flattery, but he knew that the 
gypsy half was awake and on guard. The situation 
was too nicely balanced for comfort; he looked 
about for fresh weight to throw into his side of the 
scale. 

One day he met Eli, wandering up the valley 


104 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


alone, flintlock in hand, on the outlook for wood¬ 
cock. 

Pyramus could be fascinating when he chose; it 
lubricated the wheels of commerce. He laid him¬ 
self out to charm Eli, told him where he had seen 
a brace of cock and also some snipe, complimented 
him on his villainous old blunderbuss, was all gleam¬ 
ing teeth, geniality and oil. He could not have 
made a greater mistake. Eli was not used to charm 
and had instinctive distrust of the unfamiliar. He 
had been reared among boors who said their say 
in the fewest words and therefore distrusted a 
talker. Further, he was his father’s son, a Penhale 
of Bosnia on his own soil, and this fellow was an 
Egyptian, a foreigner, and he had an instinctive 
distrust of foreigners. He growled something in¬ 
coherent, scowled at the beaming Pyramus, shoul¬ 
dered his unwieldy cannon and marched off in the 
opposite direction. 

Pyramus bit his fleshy lip; nothing to be done with 
that truculent bear cub—^but what about the 
brother, the handsome dark boy? What about 
him—eh? 

He looked out for Ortho, met him once or twice 
in company with other lads, made no overtures be¬ 
yond a smile, but heeled his mare and set her cara¬ 
coling showily. 

He did not glance round, but he knew the boy’s 
eyes were following him. A couple of evenings 
after the last meeting he came home to learn that 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


105 


young Penhale had been hanging about the camp 
that afternoon. 

The eldest Herne son, Lussha, had invited him 
in, but Ortho declined, saying he had come up to 
look at some badger diggings. Pyramus smiled into 
his curly beard; the badger holes had been unten¬ 
anted for years. Ortho came up to carry out a 
further examination of the badger earths the very 
next day. 

Pyramus saw him, high up among the rocks of 
the cam, his back to the diggings, gazing wistfully 
down on the camp, its tents, fires, and horses. He 
did not ask the boy in, but sent out a scout with 
orders to bring word when young Penhale went 
home. 

The scout returned at about three o’clock. 
Ortho, he reported, had worked stealthily down 
from the earn top and had been lying in the bracken 
at the edge of the encampment for the last hour, 
imagining himself invisible. He had now gone off 
towards Bosnia. Pyramus called for his mare to 
be saddled, brushed his breeches, put on his best 
coat, mounted and pursued. He came up with the 
boy a mile or so above the farm and brought 
his mount alongside caracoling and curveting. 
Ortho’s expressive eyes devoured her. 

‘‘Good day to you, young gentleman,” Pyramus 
called, showing his fine teeth. Ortho grinned in 
return. 

“Wind gone back to the east; we shall have a 


106 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


spell of dry weather, I think,” said the gypsy, mak¬ 
ing the mare do a right pass, pivot on her hocks 
and pass to the left. 

“Yeh,” said Ortho, his mouth wide with admira¬ 
tion. 

King Herne and his steed were enough to take 
any boy’s fancy; they were dressed to that end. 
The gypsy had masses of inky hair, curled mus¬ 
taches and an Assyrian beard, which frame of black 
served to enhance the brightness of his glance, the 
white brilliance of his smile. He was dressed in 
the coat he wore when calling on the gentry, dark 
blue frogged with silver lace, and buff spatter¬ 
dashes. He sat as though bolted to the saddle from 
the thighs down; the upper half of him, hinged at 
the hips, balanced gracefully to every motion of 
his mount, lithe as a panther for all his forty-eight 
years. 

And the mare—she was his pride and delight, 
black like himself, three-quarter Arab, mettlesome, 
fine-boned, pointed of muzzle, arched of neck. Un¬ 
like her mates, she was assiduously groomed and 
kept rugged in winter so that her coat had not 
grown shaggy. Her long mane rippled like silken 
threads, her tail streamed behind her like a banner. 
The late sunshine twinked on the silver mountings 
of her bridle and rippled over* her hide till she 
gleamed like satin. She bounded and pirouetted 
along beside Ortho, light on her feet as a ballerina, 
tossed her mane, pricked her crescent ears, showed 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


107 


the whites of her eyes, clicked the bit in her young 
teeth, a thing of steel and swansdown, passion and 
docility. 

Ortho’s eyes devoured her. Pyramus noted it, 
laughed and patted the glossy neck. 

“You like my little sweet—eh? She is of blood 
royal. Her sire was given to the Chevalier Lombez 
Muret by the Basha of Oran in exchange for three 
pieces of siege ordnance and a chiming clock. The 
dam of that sire sprang from the sacred mares of 
the Prophet Mahomet, the mares that though dying 
of thirst left the life-giving stream and galloped to 
the trumpet call. There is the blood of queens in 
her.” 

“She is a queen herself,” said Ortho warmly. 

Pyramus nodded. “Well said! I see you have 
an eye for a horse, young squire. You can ride, 
doubtless ?” 

“Yes—but only pack-horses.” 

“So—only pack-horses, farm drudges—that is 
doleful traveling. See here, mount my ‘Rriena,’ 
and drink theiwind.” He dropped the reins, vaulted 
off over the mare’s rump and held* out his hand for 
Ortho’s knee. 

“Me! I ... I ride her?” The boy stuttered, 
astounded. 

The gypsy smiled his dazzling, genial smile. 
“Surely—^^an you will. There is nothing to fear; 
she is playful only, the heart of a dove. Take hold 
of the reins . . . your knee . . . up you go!” 


108 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


He hove the boy high and lowered him gently 
into the saddle. 

“Stirrups too long? Put your feet in the leathers 
—so. An easy hand on her mouth, a touch will 
serve. Ready? Then away, my chicken.” 

He let go the bridle and clapped his palms. The 
mare bounded into the air. Ortho, frightened, 
clutched the pommel, but she landed again light as a 
feather, never shifting him in the saddle. Smoothly 
she caracoled, switching her plumy tail, tossing her 
head, snatching playfully at the bit. There was 
no pitch, no jar, just an easy, airy rocking. Ortho 
let her gambol on for a hundred yards or so, and 
then, thinking he’d better turn, fingered his off rein. 
He no more than fingered the rein, but the mare 
responded as though she divined his thoughts, circled 
smoothly and rocked back towards Pyramus. 

“Round again,” shouted the gypsy, “and give her 
rein; there’s a stretch of turf before you.” 

Again the mare circled. Ortho tapped her with 
his heels. A tremble ran through her, an electric 
thrill; she sprang into a canter, from a canter to 
a gallop and swept down the turf all out. It was 
flight, no less, winged flight, skimming the earth. 
The turf streamed under them like a green river; 
bushes, trees, bowlders flickered backwards, blurred, 
reeling. The wind tore Ortho’s cap off, ran fingers 
through his hair, whipped tears to his eyes, blew 
jubilant bugles in his ears, drowning the drum of 
hoofs, filled his open mouth, sharp, intoxicating, the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


109 


heady wine of speed. He was one with clouds, 
birds, arrows, all things free and flying. He wanted 
to sing and did so, a wordless, crazy caroling. 
They swept on, drunk with the glory of it. A bar¬ 
rier of thorn stood across the way, and Ortho came 
to his senses. They would be into it in a minute 
unless he stopped the mare. He braced himself for 
a pull—but there was no need; she felt him stiffen 
and sit back, sat back herself and came to a full 
stop within ten lengths. Ortho wiped the happy 
tears from his eyes, patted her shoulder, turned and 
went back at the same pace, speed-drunk again. 
They met the gypsy walking towards them, the 
dropped cap in hand. He called to the mare; she 
stopped beside him and rubbed her soft muzzle 
against his chest. He looked at the flushed, enrap¬ 
tured boy. 

“She can gallop, my little ‘Rriena’?” 

“Gallop! Why, yes. Gallop! I ... I never 
knew . . . never saw . . . I . . .” Words failed 
Ortho. 

Pyramus laughed. “No, there is not her match 
in the country. But, mark ye, she will not give 
her best to anybody. She felt the virtue in you, 
knew you for her master. You need experience, 
polish, but you are a horseman born, flat in the 
thigh, slim-waisted, with light, strong hands.” The 
gypsy’s voice pulsed with enthusiasm, his dark eyes 
glowed. “Tcha! I wish I had the schooling of you; 
I’d make you a wizard with horses!” 


110 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Oh, I wish you would! Will you, will you?” 
cried Ortho. 

Pyramus made a gesture with his expressive 
hands. 

“I would willingly—I love a bold boy—^but . . 

“Yes?” 

Pyramus shrugged his shoulders. “The lady, your 
mother, has no liking for me. She is right, doubt¬ 
less; you are Christian, gentry, I but a poor Rom 
. . . still I mean no harm.” 

“She shall never know, never,” said Ortho 
eagerly. “Oh, I would give anything if you would 1” 

Pyramus shook his head reprovingly. “You must 
honor your parents. Squire; it is so written . . . 
and yet I am loath to let your gifts lie fallow; a 
prince of jockeys I could make you.” 

He bit his finger nails as though wrestling with 
temptation. “See here, get your mother’s leave and 
then come, come and a thousand welcomes. I have 
a chestnut pony, a red flame of a pony, that would 
carry you as my beauty carries me.” 

He vaulted into the saddle, jumped the mare 
over a furze bush, whirled about, waved his hat 
and was gone up the valley, scattering clods. 
Ortho watched the flying pair until they were out 
of sight, and then turned homewards, his heart 
pounding, new avenues of delight opening before 
him. 

Out of sight, Pyramus eased Rriena to a walk 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


111 


and, leaning forward, pulled her ears affectionately. 
“Did he roll all over you and tug your mouth, my 
sweetmeat?’’ he purred. “Well, never again. But 
we have him now. In a year or two he’ll be master 
here and I’ll graze fifty nags where I grazed twenty. 
We will fatten on that boy.” 

Ortho reported at the gypsy camp shortly after 
sun-up next morning; he was wasting no time. Ques¬ 
tioned, he swore he had Teresa’s leave, which was 
a lie, as Pyramus knew it to be. But he had cov¬ 
ered himself; did trouble arise he could declare he 
understood the boy had got his mother’s permis¬ 
sion. 

Ortho did not expect to be discovered. Teresa 
was used to his being out day and night with either 
Bohenna or Jacky’s George and would not be curi¬ 
ous. The gypsies had the head of the valley to 
themselves; nobody ever came that way except the 
cow-girl Wany, and she had no eyes for anything 
but the supernatural. 

The riding lessons began straightway on LussBa’s 
red pony “Cherry.” The chestnut was by no means 
as perfect a mount as the black mare, but for all 
that a creditable performer, well-schooled, speedy 
and eager, a refreshing contrast to the stiff-jointed, 
iron-mouthed farm horses. Pyramus took pains 
with his pupil. Half of what he had said was true; 
the boy was shaped to fit a saddle and his hands 
were sensitive. There was a good deal of the artist 


112 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


in King Herne. It pleased him to handle promising 
material for its own sake, but above all he sought 
to infect the boy with horse-fever to his own ma¬ 
terial gain. 

The gypsy camp saw Ortho early and late. He 
returned to Bosnia only to sleep and fill his pockets 
with food. Food in wasteful plenty lay about every¬ 
where in that slip-shod establishment; the door was 
never bolted. He would creep home through the 
orchard, silence the dogs with a word, take off his 
shoes in the kitchen, listen to Teresa’s hearty snores 
in the room above, drive the cats off the remains 
of supper, help himself and tiptoe up to bed. No¬ 
body, except Eli, knew where he spent his days; 
nobody cared. 

The gypsies attracted him for the same reason 
that they repelled his brother; they were something 
new, something he did not understand. 

Ortho did not find anything very elusive about 
the males; they were much like other men, if quicker- 
witted and more suave. It was the women who 
intrigued and, at the same time, awed him. He 
had watched them at work with the cards, bent 
over the palm of a trembling servant girl or farm 
woman. What did they know? What didn’t they 
know? What virtue was in them that they should 
be the chosen mouthpieces of Destiny? He would 
furtively watch them about their domestic duties, 
stirring the black pots or nursing their half-naked 
brats, and wonder what secrets the Fates were even 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


113 

then whispering into their ringed ears, what enigmas 
were being made plain to those brooding eyes. He 
felt his soul laid bare to those omniscient eyes. 

But it was solely his own imagination that 
troubled him. The women gave him no cause; they 
cast none but the gentlest glances at the dark boy. 
Sometimes of an evening they would sing, not the 
green English ballads and folk-songs that were their 
stock-in-trade, but epics of Romany heroes, threno¬ 
dies and canzonets. 

Pyramus was the principal soloist. He had a 
pliant, tuneful voice and accompanied himself on a 
Spanish guitar. 

He would squat before the fire, the women in a 
row opposite him, toss a verse across to them, and 
they would toss back the refrain, rocking to the 
time as though strung on a single wire. 

The scene stirred Ortho—the gloomy wood, the 
overhanging rocks, the gypsy king, guitar across 
his knees, trumpeting his wild songs of love and 
knavery; and the women and girls, in their filthy, 
colorful rags, seen through a film of wood smoke, 
swaying to and fro, to and fro, bright eyes and 
barbaric brass ornaments glinting in the firelight. 
On the outer circle children and men lay listening 
in the leaf mold, and beyond them invisible horses 
stamped and shifted at their pickets, an owl hooted, 
a dog barked. 

The scene stirred Ortho. It was so strange, and 
yet somehow so familiar, he had a feeling that some- 


114 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


time, somewhere he had seen it all before; long ago 
and far away he had sat in a camp like this and 
heard women singing. He liked the boastful, 
stormy songs, “Invocation to Timour,” “The Mas¬ 
ter Thief,” “The Valiant Tailor,” but the dirges 
carried him off, one especially. It was very sweet 
and sad, it had only four verses and the women sang 
each refrain more softly than the one before, so 
that the last was hardly above a whisper and dwin¬ 
dled into silence like the wind dying away—“aie, 
aie; aie, aie.” Ortho did not understand what it 
was about, its name even, but when he heard it 
he lost himself, became some one else, some one else 
who understood perfectly crept inside his body, 
forced his tears, made him sway and feel queer. 
Then the gypsy women across the fire would glance 
at him and nudge each other quietly. “See,” they 
would whisper, “his Rom grandfather looking out 
of his eyes.” 


CHAPTER X 


O NE evening, in late February, there was 
mullet pie for supper which was so much to 
Teresa’s taste that she ate more than even 
her heroic digestive organs could cope with, rent 
the stilly night with lamentations and did not get 
up for breakfast. Towards nine o’clock, she felt 
better, at eleven was herself again and, remember¬ 
ing it was Paul Feast, dressed in her finery and rode 
off to see the sport. 

She arrived to witness what appeared to be a 
fratricidal war between the seafaring stalwarts of 
the parish and the farm hands. A mob of boys 
and men surged about a field, battling claw and 
hoof for the possession of a cow-hide ball which 
occasionally lobbed into view, but more often lay 
buried under a pile of writhing bodies. 

Teresa was very fond of these rough sports and 
journeyed far and wide to see them, but what held 
her interest most that afternoon was a party of 
gentry who had ridden from Penzance to watch 
the barbarians at play. Two ladies and three gen¬ 
tlemen there were, the elder woman riding pillion, 
the younger side-saddle. They were very exquisite 
and superior, watched the uncouth mob through 
quizzing glasses and made witty remarks after the 
115 


116 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


manner of visitors at a menagerie commenting on 
near-human antics of the monkeys. The younger 
woman chattered incessantly; a thinly pretty crea¬ 
ture, wearing a gold-braided cocked hat and long 
brown coat cut in the masculine mode. 

“Eliza, Eliza, I beseech you look at that woman’s 
stomacher! . . . And that wench’s farthingale! 
Elizabethan, I declare; one would imagine oneself 
at a Vauxhall masquerade. Mr. Borlase, I felici¬ 
tate you on your entertainment.” She waved her 
whip towards the mob. “Bear pits are tedious by 
comparison. I must pen my experiences for The 
‘Elegantia inter Barbaros, or a Lady’s 
Adventures Among the Wild Cornish.’ Tell me, 
pray, when it is all over do they devour the dead? 
We must go before that takes place; I shall posi¬ 
tively expire of fright—though my cousin Venables, 
who has voyaged the South Seas, tells me cannibals 
are, as a rule, an amiable and loving people, vastly 
preferable to Tories. Captain Angus, I have 
dropped my kerchief . . . you neglect me, sir! 
My God, Eliza, there’s a handsome boy! . . . Be¬ 
hind you. . . . The gypsy boy on the sorrel pony. 
What a pretty young rogue!” 

The whole party turned their heads to look at 
the Romany Apollo. Teresa followed their exam¬ 
ple and beheld it was Ortho. Under the delusion 
that his mother was abed and,, judging by the noise 
she made, at death’s door, he had ventured afield 
in company with four young Hernes. He wore no 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


117 


cap, his sleeve was ripped from shoulder to cuff 
and he was much splashed all down his back and 
legs. He did not see his mother; he was absorbed 
in the game. Teresa shut her teeth, and drew a 
long, deep breath through them. 

The battle suddenly turned against the fishermen; 
the farm hands, uttering triumphant howls, began 
to force them rapidly backwards towards the 
Church Town. Ortho and his ragged companions 
wheeled their mounts and ambled downhill to see 
the finish. Teresa did not follow them. She found 
her horse, mounted and rode straight home. 

“The gypsy boy on the sorrel pony—the gypsy 
boy!” 

People were taking her Ortho, Ortho Penhale of 
Bosnia and Tregors, for a vagabond Rom, were 
they? 

She was furious, but admitted they had cause— 
dressed like a scarecrow and mixed up with a crowd 
of young horse thieves! Teresa swore so savagely 
that her horse started. Anyhow she would stop 
it at once, at once—she’d settle all this gypsy busi¬ 
ness— gypsy! Time after time she had vowed to 
send Ortho to school, but she was always hard up 
when it came to the point, and year after year 
slipped by. He must be somewhere about sixteen 
now—fifteen, sixteen or seventeen—she wasn’t sure, 
and it didn’t matter to a year or so, she could look 
it up in the parish registers if need be. He should 
go to Helston like his father and learn to be a 


118 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


gentleman—and, incidentally, learn to keep ac¬ 
counts. It would be invaluable to have some one 
who could handle figures; then the damned trades¬ 
men wouldn’t swindle her and she’d have money 
again. 

“The gypsy boy!” . . . The words stung her 
afresh. Had she risen out of the muck of vagrancy 
to have her son slip back into it? Never! She’d 
settle all that. Not for a moment did she doubt 
her ability to cope with Ortho. What must John 
in heaven be thinking of her stewardship? She 
wept with mingled anger and contrition. To-mor¬ 
row she’d open a clean page. Ortho should go to 
school at once. Gypsy! She’d show them! 

She was heavily in debt, but the money should . 
be found somehow. All the way home she was 
planning ways and means. 

Ortho returned late that night and went to bed 
unconscious that he had been found out. Next 
morning he was informed that he was to go with 
his mother to Penzance. This was good tidings. 
He liked going to town with Teresa. She bought 
all kinds of eatables and one saw life, ladies and 
gentlemen; a soldier or two sometimes; blue-water 
seamen drunk as lords and big wind-bound ships 
at anchor. He saddled the dun pony and jogged 
alongside her big roan, prattling cheerfully all the 
way. 

She watched him, her interest aroused. He cer¬ 
tainly was good looking, with his slim uprightness. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


119 


eager expression, and quick, graceful movements. 
He had luminous dark eyes, a short nose, round 
chin and crisp black curls—like her own. He was 
like her in many ways, many ways. Good company 
too. He told her several amusing stories and 
laughed heartily at hers. A debonair, attractive 
boy, very different from his brother. She felt sud¬ 
denly drawn towards him. He would make a good 
companion when he came back from school. His 
looks would stir up trouble in sundry dove-cotes 
later on, she thought, and promised herself much 
amusement, having no sympathy for doves. 

It was not until they arrived in Penzance that 
she broke the news that he was going to school. 
Ortho was a trifle staggered at first, but, to her 
surprise, took it very calmly, making no objections. 
In the first place it was something new, and the 
prospect of mixing with a herd of other boys struck 
him as rather jolly; secondly, he was fancying him¬ 
self enormously in the fine clothes with which 
Teresa was loading him; he had never had any¬ 
thing before but the roughest of home-spuns stitched 
together by Martha and speedily reduced to shreds. 
He put the best suit on there and then, and strutted 
Market Jew Street like a young peacock ogling its 
first hen. 

They left Penzance in the early afternoon (spare 
kit stuffed in the saddle-bags). In the ordinary way 
Teresa would have gone straight to the “Angel” 
at Helston and ordered the best, but now, in keep- 


120 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ing with her new vow of economy, she sought a 
free night’s lodging at Tregors—also she wanted to 
raise some of the rent in advance. 

Ortho was entered at his father’s old school next 
day. 

Teresa rode home pleasantly conscious of duty 
done, and Ortho plunged into the new world, con¬ 
vinced that he had only to smile and conquer. In 
which he erred. He was no longer a Penhale in his 
own parish, prospective squire of the Keigwin Val¬ 
ley, but an unsophistocated young animal thrust into 
a den of sophisticated young animals and therefore 
a heaven-sent butt for their superior humor. Rising 
seventeen, and set to learn his A, B, C in the lowest 
form among the babies! This gave the wits an 
admirable opening. That he could ride, sail a boat 
and shoot anything flying or running weighed as 
nothing against his ignorance of Latin declensions. 

He sought to win some admiration, or even toler¬ 
ance for himself by telling of his adventures with 
Pyramus and Jacky’s George, but it had the oppo¬ 
site effect. His tormentors (sons of prosperous 
land owners and tradesmen) declared that any one 
who associated with gypsies and fishermen must be 
of low caste himself and taunted him unmercifully. 
They would put their hands to their mouths and 
halloo after the manner of fish-hawkers. “Mack¬ 
erel! Fresh mack-erel! . . . Say, Penhale, what’s 
the price of pilchards to-day?” 

Or “Hello, Penhale, there’s one of your Pharaoh 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


121 


mates at the gate—^wlth a monkey. Better go and 
have a clunk over old times.” 

Baiting Penhale became a fashionable pastime. 
Following the example of their elders, the small 
boys took up the ragging. This was more than 
Ortho could stand. He knocked some heads to¬ 
gether, whereby earning the reputation of a bully. 

A bulky, freckled lad named Burnadick, propelled 
by friends and professing himself champion of the 
oppressed, challenged Ortho to fight. 

Ortho had not the slightest desire to fight the 
reluctant champion, but the noncombatants (as is 
the way with noncombatants) gave him no option. 
They formed a ring round the pair and pulled the 
coats off them. 

For a moment or two it looked as if Ortho would 
win. An opening punch took him under the nose 
and stung him to such a pitch of fury that he tumbled 
on top of the freckled one, whirling like a windmill, 
fairly smothering him. But the freckled one was 
an old warrior; he dodged and side-stepped and 
propped straight lefts to the head whenever he got 
a chance, well knowing that Ortho could not last the 
crazy pace. 

Ortho could not, or any mortal man. In a couple 
of minutes he was puffing and grunting, swinging 
wildly, giving openings everywhere. The heart was 
clean out of him; he had not wanted to fight in the 
first place and the popular voice was against him. 
Everybody cheered Burnadick; not a single whoop 


122 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


for him. He ended tamely, dropped his fists and 
gave Burnadick best. The mob jeered and hooted 
and crowded round the victor, who shook them off 
and walked away, licking his raw knuckles. He 
had an idea of following Penhale and shaking hands 
with him . . . hardly knew what the fight had been 
about . . . wished the other fellows weren’t always 
arranging quarrels for him; they never gave his 
knuckles time to heal. He’d have a chat with 
Penhale one of these days . . . to-morrow per¬ 
haps. . . 

His amiable intentions never bore fruit, for on 
the morrow his mother was taken ill, and he was 
summoned home and nobody else had any kindly 
feelings for Ortho. He wrestled with incompre¬ 
hensible primers among tittering- infants during 
school hours; out of school he slunk about, alone 
always, cold-shouldered everywhere. His sociable 
soul grew sick within him, he rebelled at the sparse 
feeding, hated the irritable, sarcastic ushers, the 
bewildering tasks, the boys, the confinement, every¬ 
thing. At night, in bed, he wept hot tears of mis¬ 
ery. 

A spell of premature spring weather touched the 
land. Incautious buds popped out in the Helston 
back gardens; the hedgerow gorse was gilt-edged; 
the warm scent of pushing greenery blew in from 
the hillsides. Armadas of shining cloud cruised 
down the blue. Ortho, laboriously spelling C, A, T, 
cat, R, A, T, rat, in a drowsy classroom, was trou- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


123 


bled with dreams. He saw the Baragwanath fam¬ 
ily painting the Game Cock on the Cove slip, getting 
her summer suit out of store; saw the rainbows 
glimmering over the Twelve Apostles, the green and 
silver glitter of the Channel beyond; smelt sea-weed; 
heard the lisp of the tide. He dreamt of Pyramus 
Herne wandering northwards with Lussha, and the 
othen boys behind bringing up the horses, wandering 
over hill and dale, new country out-reeling before 
him every day. He bowed over the desk and buried 
his face in the crook of his arm. 

A fly explored the spreading ear of “Rusty 
Rufus,” the junior usher. He woke out of his 
drowse, one little pig eye at a time, and glanced 
stealthily round his class. Two young gentlemen 
were playing noughts and crosses, two more were 
flipping pellets at each other; a fifth was making 
chalk marks on the back of a sixth, who in turn was 
absorbed in cutting initials in the desk; a seventh 
appeared to be asleep. Rufus, having slumbered 
himself, passed over the first six and fell upon his 
imitator. 

“Penhale, come here,” he rumbled and reached 
for his stick. 

Ortho obeyed. The usher usually indulged in 
much labored sarcasm at the boy’s expense, but 
he was too lazy that afternoon. 

“Hand,” he growled. 

Ortho held out his hand. “Rufus” swung back 
the stick and measured the distance with a puckered 


124 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


eye. Ortho hated him; he was a loathly sight, lying 
back in his chair, shapeless legs straddled out be¬ 
fore him, fat jowl bristling with the rusty stubble 
from which he got his name, protuberant waistcoat 
stained with beer and snuff—a hateful beast! An 
icy glitter of cruelty—a flicker as of lightning re¬ 
flected on a stagnant pool—suddenly lit the indolent 
eyes of the junior usher and down came the cane 
whistling. But Ortho’s hand was not there to re¬ 
ceive it. How it came about he never knew. He 
was frightened by the revealing blaze in Rufus’ eyes, 
but he did not mean to shirk the stick; his hand 
withdrew itself of its own accord, without orders 
from his brain—a muscular twitch. However it 
happened the results were fruitful. Rufus cut him¬ 
self along the inside of his right leg with all his 
might. He dropped the stick, bounded out of his 
chair and hopped about the class, cursing horribly, 
yelping with pain. Ortho stood transfixed, horrified 
at what he had done. A small boy, his eyes round 
with admiration, hissed at him from behind his 
hand: 

“Run, you fool—he’ll kill you!” 

Ortho came to his senses and bolted for the door. 

But Rufus was too quick for him. He bounded 
across the room, choking, spluttering, apoplectic, 
dirty fat hands clawing the air. He clawed Ortho 
by the hair and collar and dragged him to him. 
Ortho hit out blindly, panicked. He was too fright¬ 
ened to think; he thought Rufus was going to kill 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


125 


him and fought for his life with the desperation of 
a cornered rat. He shut his eyes and teeth, rammed 
Rufus in the only part of him he could reach, namely 
the stomach. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven 
—it was like hitting a jelly. At the fourth blow 
he felt the usher’s grip on him loosen. At the 
fifth he was free, the sixth sent the man to the floor, 
the seventh was wasted. 

Rufus lay on the boards, clutching his stomach, 
making the most dreadful retching noises. The 
small boys leapt up on their desks cheering and 
exhorting Ortho to run. He ran. Out of the door, 
across the court, out of the gates, up the street and 
out into the country. Ran on and on without look¬ 
ing where he was going, on and on. 

It was fully an hour later before it occurred to 
him that he was running north, but he did not 
change direction. 

Teresa was informed of Ortho’s sensational de¬ 
parture two days later. The school authorities 
sent to Bosula, expecting to find the boy had re¬ 
turned home and were surprised that he had not. 
Where had he got to? Teresa had an idea that 
he was hiding somewhere in the district, and combed 
it thoroughly, but Ortho was not forthcoming. The 
gypsy camp was long deserted, and Jacky’s George 
had gone to visit his Scillonian sister by the some¬ 
what circuitous route of Guernsey. 

It occurred to her that he might be lying up In 


126 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the valley, surreptitiously fed by Eli, and put Bo- 
henna on to beat it out, but the old hind drew blank. 
She then determined that he was with the tinners 
around St. Just (a sanctuary for many a wanted 
Cornishman), and since there was no hope of ex¬ 
tricating him from their underground labyrinths the 
only thing to do was to wait. He’d come home in 
time, she said, and promised the boy a warm recep¬ 
tion when he did. 

Then came a letter from Pyramus Herne—dic¬ 
tated to a public letter writer. Pyramus was at 
Ashburton buying Dartmoor ponies and Ortho was 
with him. Pyramus was profuse with regrets and 
disclaimed all responsibility. Ortho had caught up 
with him at Launceston, foot-sore, ragged, starv¬ 
ing, terrified—but adamant. He, Pyramus, had 
chided him, begged him to return, even offered to 
lend him a horse to carry him back to Helston or 
Bosnia, but Ortho absolutely refused to do either— 
declaring that rather than return he would kill him¬ 
self. What was to be done? He could not turn a 
friendless and innocent boy adrift to starve or be 
maltreated by the beggars, snatch-purses and loose 
women who swarmed into the roads at that season 
of the year. What was he to do? He respectfully 
awaited Teresa’s instructions, assuring her that in 
the meanwhile Ortho should have the best his poor 
establishment afforded and remained her ladyship’s 
obedient and worshipful servant, etc. 

Teresa took the letter to the St. Gwithian parish 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


127 


clerk to be read and bit her lip when she learnt 
the contents. The clerk asked her if she wanted 
a reply written, but she shook her head and went 
home. Ortho could not be brought back from 
Devon handcuffed and kept chained in his room. 
There was nothing to be done. 

So her son had reverted to type. She did not 
think it would last long. The Hernes were pros¬ 
perous for gypsies. Ortho would not go short of 
actual food and head cover, but there would be 
days of trudging against the wind and rain, soaked 
and trickling from head to heel, beds in wet grass; 
nights of thunder with horses breaking loose and 
tumbling over the tents; shuddering dawns chilling 
the very marrow; parched noons choked with dust; 
riots at fairs, cudgels going and stones flying; filth, 
blows, bestiality, hard work and hard weather, hand 
to mouth all the way. Ortho was no glutton for 
punishment; he would return to the warm Owls’ 
House ere long, curl up gratefully before the fire, 
cured of his wanderlust. All was for the best doubt¬ 
less, Teresa considered, but she packed Eli off to 
school in his place; the zest for duty was still strong 
in her—and, furthermore, she must have somebody 
who could keep accounts. 


CHAPTER XI 


E li went to school prepared for a bad time. 
Ortho had not run away for nothing; he was 
no bulldog for unprofitable endurance—les¬ 
sons had been irksome, no doubt—^but he should 
have been in his element among a horde of boys. 
He liked having plenty of his own kind about him 
and naturally dominated them. He had won over 
the surly Gwithian farm boys with ease; the turbu¬ 
lent Monks Cove fisher lads looked to him as chief, 
and even those wild hawks, the young Hernes, fol¬ 
lowed him unquestioning into all sorts of mischief. 
Yet Ortho had fled school as from torment. 

If the brilliant and popular brother had come to 
grief how much more trouble was in store for him, 
the dullard? Eli set his jaw. Come what might, 
he would see it through; he would stick at school, 
willy-nilly, until he got what he wanted out of it, 
namely the three R’s. It had been suddenly borne 
in on Eli that education had its uses. 

Chance had taken him to the neighboring farm 
of Roswarva, which bounded Polmenna moors on 
the west. There was a new farmer in possession, a 
widower by the name of Penaluna, come from the 
north of the Duchy with a thirteen-year daughter, 
an inarticulate child, leggy as a foal. 

128 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 129 

Eli, scrambling about the Luddra Head, had dis¬ 
covered an otter’s holt, and then and there lit a 
smoke fire to test if the tenant were at home or 
not. The otter was at home and came out with a 
rush. Eli attempted to tail it, but his foot slipped 
on the dry thrift and he sprawled on top of the 
beast, which bit him in three places. He managed 
to drop a stone on it as it slid away over the rocks, 
but he could hardly walk. Penaluna met him limp¬ 
ing across a field dragging his victim by the tail, 
and took him to Roswarva to have his wounds 
tied up. 

Eli had not been to Roswarva since the days of 
its previous owners, a beach-combing, shiftless 
crew, and he barely recognized the place. The 
kitchen was creamy with whitewash; the cupboards 
freshly painted; the table scrubbed spotless; the 
ranked pans gleamed like copper moons; all along 
the mantelshelf were china dogs with gilt collars 
and ladies and gentlemen on prancing horses, hawks 
perched a-wrist. In the corner was an oak grand¬ 
father clock with a bright brass face engraved with 
the signs of the zodiac and the cautionary words: 

“I mark ye Hours but cannot stay their Race; 

Nor Priest nor King may buy a moment’s Grace; 

Prepare to meet thy Maker face to face.” 

Sunlight poured into the white kitchen through 
the south window, setting everything a-shine and 
a-twinkle—a contrast to unkempt Bosnia, redolent 


130 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of cooking and stale food, buzzing with flies, in¬ 
cessantly invaded by pigs and poultry. Outside 
Roswarva all was in the same good shape; the 
erst-littered yard cleared up, the tumbledown sheds 
rebuilt and thatched. Eli limped home over trim 
hedges, fields cultivated up to the last inch and 
plentifully manured and came upon his own land— 
crumbling banks broken down by cattle and grown 
to three times their proper breadth with thorn and 
brambles; fields thick with weeds; windfalls lying 
where they had dropped; bracken encroaching from 
every point. 

He had never before remarked anything amiss 
with Bosnia, but, coming straight from Roswarva, 
the contrast struck him in the face. He thought 
about it for two days, and then marched over to 
Roswarva. He found Simeon Penaluna on the 
cliff-side rooting out slabs of granite with a crow¬ 
bar and piling them into a wall. A vain pursuit, 
Eli thought, clearing a cliff only fit for donkeys and 
goats. 

“What are you doing that for?” he asked. 

“Potatoes,” said Simeon. 

“Why here, when you got proper fields?” 

“Open to sun all day, and sea’ll keep ’em warm 
at night. No frost. I’ll get taties here two weeks 
earlier than up-along.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Read it. Growers in Jersey has been doin’ it 
these years.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 131 

Eli digested this information and leaned against 
the wall, watching Penaluna at work. 

Eli liked the man’s air of patient power, also his 
economy of speech. He decided he was to be 
trusted. ‘‘You’re a good farmer, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Penaluna truthfully. 

“What’s wrong with our place, Bosula?” Eli in¬ 
quired. 

“Under-manned,” said Penaluna. “Your father 
had two men besides himself and he worked like a 
bullock and was clever, Pve heard tell. Now you’ve 
got but two, and not a head between ’em. Place 
is going back. Come three years the trash’ll stran¬ 
gle ’e in your beds.” 

Eli took the warning calmly. “We’ll stop that,” 
he announced. 

Penaluna subjected him to a hard scrutiny, spat 
on his palms, worked the crow-bar into a crevice 
and tried his weight on it. 

“Hum! Maybe—but you’d best start soon.” 

Eli nodded and considered again. “Are you 
clever?” 

Penaluna swung his bar from left to right; the 
rock stirred in its bed. 

“No—^but I can read.” 

Eli’s eyes opened. That was the second time 
reading had*been mentioned. What had that school¬ 
mastering business to do with real work like farm¬ 
ing? 

“Went to free-school at Truro,” Simeon ex- 


132 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


plained. “There’s clever ones that writes off books 
and I reads ’em. There’s smart notions in books— 
sometimes. I got six books on farming—six 
brains.” 

“Um-m,” muttered Eli, the idea slowly taking 
hold. 

In return for advice given, he helped the farmer 
pile walls until sunset and not another word was 
interchanged. When he got home it was to learn 
that Ortho was in Devon with Pyramus and that 
he was to go to school in his stead. 

Eli’s feelings were mixed. If Ortho had had a 
bad time he would undoubtedly have worse, but on 
the other hand he would learn to read and could 
pick other people’s brains—like Penaluna. He rode 
to Helston with his mother, grimly silent all the 
way, steeling himself to bear the rods for Bosnia’s 
sake. But Ortho, by the dramatic manner of his 
exit, had achieved popularity when it was no longer 
of any use to him. Eli stepped in at the right 
moment to receive the goodly heritage. 

Was he not own brother to the hero who had 
tricked Rufus into slicing himself across the leg and 
followed up this triumph by pummeling seven bells 
out of the detested usher and flooring him in his 
own classroom? The story had lost nothing in the 
mouths of the spectators. A half-minute scramble 
between a sodden hulk of a man and a terrified boy 
had swollen into a Homeric contest as full of inci¬ 
dent as the Seven Years’ War, lasting half an hour 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


133 


and ending in Rufus lying on the floor, spitting blood 
and imploring mercy. Eli entered the school sur¬ 
rounded by a warm nimbus of reflected glory and 
took Ortho’s place at the bottom of the lowest 
form. 

That he was the criminal’s brother did not en¬ 
dear him to Rufus, who gave him the benefit of 
his acid tongue from early morn to dewy eve, but 
beyond abuse the usher^did not go. Eli was not tall, 
but he was exceptionally slkirdy and Rufus had not 
forgotten a certain affair. He was chary of these 
Penhales—little better than savages—reared among 
smugglers and moor-men—utterly undisciplined . . . 
no saying what they might do . . . murder one, even. 
He kept his stick for the disciplined smaller fry 
and pickled his tongue for Eli. Eli did not mind 
the sarcasm in the least. His mental hide was far 
too thick to feel the prick—and anyhow it was only 
talk. 

One half-holiday bird’s-nesting in Penrose woods, 
he came upon the redoubtable Burnadick similarly 
engaged and they compared eggs. In the midst of 
the discussion a bailiff appeared on the scene and 
they had to run for it. The bailiff produced dogs and 
the pair were forced to make a wide detour via Praze 
and Lanner Vean. Returning by Helston Mill, 
they met with a party of town louts who, having 
no love for the “Grammar scholards,” threw stones. 
A brush ensued, Eli acquitting himself with credit. 
The upshot of all this was that they reached school 


134 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


seven minutes late for roll call and were rewarded 
with a thrashing. Drawn together by common pain 
and adventure, the two were henceforth inseparable, 
forming a combination which no boy or party of 
boys dared gainsay. With Rufus’ sting drawn and 
the great Burnadick his ally Eli found school life 
tolerable. He did not enjoy it; the food was insuf¬ 
ficient, the restraint burdensome, but it was by no 
means as bad as he had expected. By constant rep¬ 
etition he was getting a parrot-like fluency with his 
tables and he seldom made a bad mistake in spell¬ 
ing—providing the word was not of more than one 
syllable. 

At the Owls’ House in the meanwhile economy 
was still the rage. Teresa’s first step was to send 
the cattle off to market. In vain did Bohenna ex¬ 
postulate, pointing out that the stock had not yet 
come to condition and further there was no market. 
It was useless. Teresa would not listen to reason; 
into Penzance they went and were sold for a song. 
After them she pitched pigs, poultry, goats and the 
dun pony. Her second step was to discharge the 
second hind, Davy. Once more Bohenna protested. 
He could hardly keep the place going as it was, he 
said. The moor was creeping in to right and left, 
the barn thatch tumbling, the banks were down, the 
gates falling to pieces. He could not be expected 
to be in more than two places at once. Teresa re¬ 
plied with more sound than sense and a shouting 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


135 


match ensued, ending in Teresa screaming that she 
was mistress and that if Bohenna didn’t shut his 
mouth and obey orders she’d pack him after 
Davy. 

But if Teresa bore hard on others she sacrificed 
herself as well. Not a single new dress did she 
order that year, and even went to the length of sell¬ 
ing two brooches, her second best cloak and her 
third best pair of earrings. Parish feasts, races, 
bull-baitings and cock-fights she resolutely eschewed; 
an occasional stroll down the Cove and a pot of ale 
at the Kiddlywink was all the relaxation she allowed 
herself. By these self-denying ordinances she was 
able to foot Eli’s school bills and pay interest on 
her debts, but her temper frayed to rags. She railed 
at Martha morning, noon and night, threw plates 
at Wany and became so unbearable that Bohenna 
carried all his meals afield with him. 

Eli came home for a few days’ holiday at mid¬ 
summer, but spent most of his waking hours at 
Rosw^arva. 

On his last evening he went ferreting with Bo¬ 
henna. The banks were riddled with rabbit sets, 
but so overgrown were they it was almost impossible 
to work the fitchets. Their tiny bells tinkled here 
and there, thither and hither in the dense under¬ 
growth, invisible and elusive as the clappers of de¬ 
risive sprites. They gamboled about, rejoicing in 
their freedom, treating the quest of fur as a sec¬ 
ondary matter. Bohenna pursued them through the 


136 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


thorns, shattering the holy hush of evening with 
blasphemies. 

“This ought to be cut back, rooted out,” Eli ob¬ 
served. 

The old hind took it as a personal criticism and 
turned on him, a bramble scratch reddening his 
cheek, voice shaking with long-suppressed resent¬ 
ment. “Rooted out, saith a’! Cut back! Who’s 
goin’ do et then? Me s’pose.” 

He held out his knotted fists, a resigned ferret 
swinging in each. 

“Look you—how many hands have I got? Two 
edden a? Two only. But your ma do think each 
o’ my fingers is a hand, I b’lieve. Youpl Cornin’ 
through I” 

A rabbit shot out of a burrow on the far side 
of the hedge, the great flintlock bellowed and it 
turned somersaults as neatly as a circus clown. 

“There’ll be three of us here when I’ve done 
schooling next midsummer and Ortho comes home,” 
said Eli calmly, ramming down a fresh charge. 
“We’ll clear the trash and put the whole place in 
crop.” 

Bohenna glanced up, surprised. “Oh, will us? 
An’ where’s cattle goin’?” 

“Sell ’em off—all but what can feed themselves 
on the bottoms. Crops’ll fetch more to the acre 
than stock.” 

“My dear soul! Harken to young Solomon! 
. . . Who’s been tellin’ you all this?” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 137 

“Couple of strong farmers I’ve talked with on 
half holidays near Helston—^and Penaluna.” 

Bohenna bristled. Wisdom in foreign worthies 
he might admit, but a neighbor . . . ! 

“What’s Simeon Penaluna been sayin’? Best 
keep his long nose on his own place; I’ll give it 
a brear wrench if I catch it sniffing over here I 
What’d he say?” 

“Said he wondered you didn’t break your heart.” 

“Humph!” Bohenna was mollified, pleased that 
some one appreciated his efforts; this Penaluna, at 
least, sniffed with discernment. He listened quietly 
while Eli recounted their neighbor’s suggestions. 

They talked farming all the way home, and it 
was a revelation to him how much the boy had 
picked up. He had no idea Eli was at all interested 
in it, had imagined, from his being sent to school, 
that he was destined for a clerk or something book¬ 
ish. He had looked forward to fighting a losing 
battle, for John’s sake and Bosnia’s sake, single- 
handed, to the end. Saw himself, a silver ancient, 
dropping dead at the plow tail and the triumphant 
bracken pouring over him like a sea. But now the 
prospect had changed. Here was a true Penhale 
coming back to tend the land of his sires. With 
young blood at his back they would yet save the 
place. He knew Eli, once he set his face forward, 
would never look back; his brain was too small to 
hold more than one idea. He gloated over the boy’s 
promising shoulders, thick neck and sturdy legs. He 


138 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


would root out the big bowlders as his father had 
done, swing an ax or scythe from cock-crow to owl- 
light without flag, toss a sick calf across his shoul¬ 
ders and stride for miles, be at once the master and 
lover of his land, the right husbandman. But of 
Ortho, the black gypsy son, Bohenna was not so 
sure. Nevertheless hope dawned afresh and he 
went home to his crib among the rocks singing, “I 
seen a ram at Hereford Fair” for the first time in 
six months. 

Eli was back again a few days before Christmas, 
and on Christmas Eve Ortho appeared. There was 
nothing of the chastened prodigal about him; he 
rode into the yard on a showy chestnut gelding 
(borrowed from Pyramus), ragged as a scarecrow, 
but shouting and singing. He slapped Bohenna on 
the back, hugged Eli affectionately, pinned his mother 
against the door post and kissed her on both cheeks 
and her nose, chucked old Martha under the chin 
and even tossed a genial word at the half-wit 
Wany. 

With the exception of Eli, no one was particularly 
elated to see him back—they remembered him only 
as an unfailing fount of mischief—but from Ortho’s 
manner one would have concluded he was restoring 
the light of their lives. He did not give them time 
to close their front. They hardly knew he had ar¬ 
rived before he had embraced them all. The 
warmth of his greeting melted their restraint. Bo- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


139 


henna’s hairy face split athwart in a yellow-toothed 
grin, Martha broke into bird-like twitters, Wany 
blushed, and Teresa said weakly, “So you’re back.” 

She had not forgiven him for his school esca^ 
pade and had intended to make his return the occa¬ 
sion of a demonstration as to who ruled the roost 
at Bosula. But now she thought she’d postpone it. 
He had foiled her for the moment, kissed her . . . 
she couldn’t very well pitch into him immediately 
after that . . . not immediately. Besides, deep in 
her heart she felt a cold drop of doubt. A new 
Ortho had come back, very different from the cal¬ 
low, pliant child who had ridden babbling to Hels- 
ton beside her ten months previously. Ortho had 
grown up. He was copper-colored with exposure, 
sported a downy haze on his upper lip and was full 
two inches taller. But the change was not so much 
physical as spiritual. His good looks were, if any¬ 
thing, emphasized, but he had hardened. Innocence 
was gone from his eyes; there was the faintest edge 
to his mirth. She had not wanted to be kissed, had 
struggled against it, but he had taken her by sur¬ 
prise, handled her with dispatch and assurance that 
could only come of practice—Master Ortho had not 
been idle on his travels. An idea occurred to her 
that she had been forestalled; it was Ortho who had 
made the demonstration. Their eyes met, crossed 
like bayonets and dropped. It was all over in the 
fraction of a second, but they had felt each other’s 
steel. 


140 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Teresa was not alarmed by the sudden develop¬ 
ment of her first-born. She was only forty-one, 
weighed fourteen stone, radiated rude health and 
feared no living thing. Since John’s death she had 
not seen a man she would have stood a word from; 
a great measure of her affection for her husband 
sprang from the knowledge that he could have 
beaten her. She apprised Ortho’s slim figure and 
mentally promised him a bellyful of trouble did he 
demand it, but for the moment she concluded to let 
bygones be—just for the moment. 

Ortho flipped some crumbs playfully over Wany, 
assured Martha she had not aged a day, told Bo- 
henna they’d have a great time after woodcock, 
threw his arm around Eli’s neck and led him out 
into the yard. 

“See here what I’ve got for you, my old heart,” 
said he, fishing in his pocket. “Bought it in Ports¬ 
mouth.” 

He placed a little brass box in Eli’s hand. It 
had a picture of a seventy-four under full sail chased 
on the lid and the comfortable words, “Let jealous 
foes no hearts dismay, Vernon our hope is, God our 
stay.” Inside was coiled a flint steel and fuse. Eli 
was profoundly touched. Ortho’s toes were show¬ 
ing through one boot, his collar bones had chafed 
holes in his shirt and his coat was in ribbons. The 
late frost must have nipped him severely, yet he 
had not spent his few poor pence in getting himself 
patched up, but bought a present for him. As a 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 141 

matter of fact the little box had cost Ortho no small 
self-denial. 

Eli stammered his thanks—which Ortho laughed 
aside—and the brothers went uphill towards Pol- 
menna Down, arms about shoulders, talking, talk¬ 
ing. Eli furnished news of Helston. Burnadick 
was sorry about that row he had had with Ortho— 
the other fellows pushed him on. He was a splen¬ 
did fellow really, knew all about hare-hunting and 
long-dogs. Eli only wished he could have seen 
Ortho ironing Rufus out! It must have been a 
glorious set-to! Everybody was still talking about 
it. Rufus had never been the same since—quaking 
and shaking. Dirty big jellyfish!—always swilling 
in pot-houses and stalking serving-maids—the whole 
town had laughed over his discomfiture. 

Ortho was surprised to learn of his posthumous 
popularity at Helston. Eli’s version of the affair 
hardly coincided with his recollection in a single par¬ 
ticular. All he remembered was being horribly 
frightened and hitting out blindly with results that 
astonished him even more than his victim. Still, 
since legend had chosen to elevate him to the pin¬ 
nacle of a St. George, suppressor of dragons, he 
saw no reason to disprove it. 

They passed on to other subjects. How had 
Ortho got on with the Romanies? Oh, famously! 
Wonderful time—had enjoyed every moment of it. 
Eli would never believe the things he had seen. 
Mountains twice . . . three . . . four times as 


142 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


high as Chapel Cam Brea or Sancreed Beacon; 
rivers with ships sailing on them as at sea; great 
houses as big as Penzance in themselves; lords and 
ladies driving in six-horse carriages; regiments of 
soldiers drilling behind negro drummers, and fairs 
with millions of people collected and all the world’s 
marvels on view; Italian midgets no higher than 
your knee, Irish giants taller than chimneys, two- 
headed calves and six-legged lambs, contortionists 
who knotted their legs round their necks, conjurers 
who magicked glass balls out of country boys’ ears; 
dancing bears, trained wolves and an Araby camel 
that required but one drink a month. Prizefights he 
had seen also; tinker women battling for a purse 
in a ring like men, and fellows that carried live 
rats in their shirt bosoms and killed them with their 
teeth at a penny a time. And cities! . . . Such 
cities! Huge enough to cover St. Gwithian parish, 
with streets so packed and people so elegant you 
thought every day must be market day. 

London? No-o, he had not been quite to Lon¬ 
don. But travelers told him that some of the places 
he had seen—Exeter, Salisbury, Plymouth, Winches¬ 
ter—were every bit as good—in some ways better. 
London, in the opinion of many, was overrated. 
Oh, by the way, in Salisbury he had seen the cream 
of the lot—two men hanged for sheep-stealing; they 
kicked and jerked in the most comical fashion. A 
wonderful time! 

The recital had a conflicting effect on Eli. To 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


143 


him Ortho’s story was as breath-taking as that of 
some swart mariner returned from fabulous spice 
islands and steamy Indian seas—^but at the same 
time he was perturbed. Was it likely that his 
brother, having seen the great world and all its 
wonders, would be content to settle down to the hum¬ 
drum life at Bosula and dour struggle with the wil¬ 
derness? Most improbable. Ortho would go ad¬ 
venturing again and he and Bohenna would have 
to face the problem alone. Bohenna was not get¬ 
ting any younger. His rosy hopes clouded over. 
He must try to get Ortho to see the danger. After 
all Bosula would come to Ortho some day; it was 
his affair. He began forthwith, pointed out the 
weedy state of the fields, the littered windfalls, the 
invasion of the moor. To his surprise Ortho was 
immediately interested—and indignant. 

“What had that lazy lubber Bohenna been up 
to? . . . And Davy? By Gad, it was a shame! 
He’d let ’em know. . . .” 

Eli explained that Davy had been turned off and 
Bohenna was doing his best. “In father’s time there 
were three of ’em here and it was all they could 
manage, working like bullocks,” said he, quoting 
Penaluna. 

“Then why haven’t we three men now?” 

“Mother says we’ve got no money to hire ’em.” 

Ortho’s jaw dropped. “No money! We? . 
Good God! Where’s it all gone to?” 

Eli didn’t know, but he did know that if some 


144 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


one didn’t get busy soon they’d have no farm left. 
“It’s been going back ever since father died,” he 
added. 

Ortho strode up and down, black-browed, biting 
his lip. Then he suddenly laughed. “Hell’s bells,” 
he cried. “What are we fretting about? There 
are three of us still, ain’t there? . . . You, me ’n’ 
Ned. I warrant we’re a match for a passel of old 
brambles, heh? I warrant we are.” 

Eli was amazed and delighted. Did Ortho really 
mean what he said? 

“Then—then you’re not going gypsying again?” 
he asked. 

Ortho spat. “My Lord, no—done with that. 
It’s a dog’s life, kicked from common to heath, liv¬ 
ing on hedge-hogs, sleeping under bushes, never dry 
—mind you, I enjoyed it all—but I’ve had all I 
want. No, boy”—once more he hugged his brother 
to him—“I’m going to stop home long o’ thee— 
us’ll make our old place the best in the Hundred 
—in the Duchy—and be big rosy yeomen full of 
good beef and cider. . . . Eh, look at that!” 

The sun had dipped. Cirrus dappled the after¬ 
glow with drifts of smoldering, crimson feathers. 
It was as though monster golden eagles were bat¬ 
tling in the upper air, dropping showers of lus¬ 
trous, blood-stained plumes. Away to the north 
the switch-backed tors rolled against the sky, wine- 
dark against pale primrose. Mist brimmed the val- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


145 


leys; dusk, empurpled, shrouded the hills. The 
primrose faded, a star outrider blinked boldly in 
the east, then the green eve suddenly quivered with 
the glint of a million million spear-heads—night’s 
silver cohorts advancing. So still was it that the 
brothers on the hilltop could plainly hear the babble 
and cluck of the hidden stream below them; the 
thump of young rabbits romping in near-by fields 
and the bark of a dog at Boskennel being answered 
by another dog at Trevider. From Bosnia yard 
came the creak and bang of a door, the clank of 
a pail—Bohenna’s voice singing: 

“I seen a ram at Hereford Fair, 

The biggest gert ram I did ever behold.” 

Ortho laughed and took up the familiar song, sent 
his pleasant, tuneful voice ringing out over the dark¬ 
ling valley: 

“His fleece were that heavy it stretched to the 
ground, 

His hoofs and his horns they was shodden wi’ 
gold.” 

Below them sounded a gruff crow of mirth from 
Bohenna and the second verse: 

“His horns they was curled like to the thorn tree. 

His fleece was as white as the blossom o’ thorn; 

He stamped like a stallion an’ roared like a bull. 

An’ the gert yeller eyes of en sparkled wi’ scorn.” 


146 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Among the bare trees a light winked, a friendly, 
beckoning wink—the kitchen window. 

Ortho drew a deep breath and waved his hand. 
“Think I’d change this—this lew li’l’ place I was 
born in for a gypsy tilt, do ’ee? No, no, my dear! 
Not for all the King’s money and all the King’s 
gems! I’ve seen ’s much of the cold world as I 
do want—and more.” He linked his arm with Eli’s. 
“Come on; let’s be getting down-along.” 

That night the brothers slept together in the same 
big bed as of old. Eli tumbled to sleep at once, 
but Ortho lay awake. Towards ten o’clock he heard 
what he had been listening for, the “Te-whoo-whee- 
wha-ha” of the brown owls calling to each other. 
He grunted contentedly, turned over and went to 
sleep. 


CHAPTER XII 


C HRISTMAS passed merrily at Bosula that 
year. Martha was an authority on “feasten” 
rites and delicacies, and Christmas was the 
culmination. Under her direction the brothers fes¬ 
tooned the kitchen with ropes of holly and ivy, and 
hung the “kissing bush’’—two barrel hoops swathed 
in evergreens—from the middle beam. 

Supper was the principal event of the day, a pro¬ 
digious spread; goose giblet pie, squab pie made 
of mutton, raisins and onions, and queer-shaped saf¬ 
fron cakes, the whole washed down with draughts 
of “eggy-hot,” an inspiring compound of eggs, hot 
beer, sugar and rum, poured from jug to jug till 
it frothed over. 

The Bosula household sat down at one board and 
gorged themselves till they could barely breathe. 
Upon them in this state came the St. Gwithian choir, 
accompanied by the parish fiddler, “Jiggy” Dan, and 
a score or so of hangers on. They sang the sweet 
and simple old “curls” of the West Country, “I saw 
three ships come sailin’ in,” “Come and I will sing 
you,” “The first good joy that Mary had,” and 

“Go the wayst out. Child Jesus, 

Go the wayst out to play; 

Down by God’s Holy Well 
I see three pretty children 
As ever tongue can tell.” 

147 


148 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Part singing is a natural art in Cornwall. The 
Gwithian choir sang well, reverently and without 
strain. Teresa, full-fed after long moderation, 
was in melting mood. The carols made her feel 
pleasantly tearful and religious. She had not been 
to church since the unfortunate affair with the 
curate, but determined she would go the very next 
Sunday and make a rule of it. 

She gave the choir leader a silver crown and 
ordered eggy-hot to be served round. The choir’s 
eyes glistened. Eggy-hot seldom came their way; 
usually they had to be content with cider. 

Martha rounded up the company. The apple 
trees must be honored or they would withhold their 
fruit in the coming year. Everybody adjourned to 
the orchard, Martha carrying a jug of cider. Bo- 
henna armed with the flintlock, loaded nearly as full 
as himself. Wany alone was absent; she was slip¬ 
ping up the valley to the great barrow to hear the 
Spriggans, the gnome-miners, sing their sad carols 
as was the custom of a Christmas night. 

The Bosnia host grouped, lantern-lit, round the 
king tree of the orchard; Martha dashed the jug 
against the trunk and pronounced her incantation: 

“Health to thee, good apple tree! 

Hatsful, packsful, great bushel-bags full! 

Hurrah and fire off the gun.” 

Everybody cheered. Bohenna steadied himself 
and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening roar, 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


149 


a yard-long tongue of flame spurted from the muz¬ 
zle, Bohenna tumbled over backwards and Jiggy 
Dan, uttering an appalling shriek, fell on his face 
and lay still. 

The scared spectators stooped over the fiddler. 

“Dead is a?” 

“Ess, dead sure ’nough—dead as last year, pore 
soul.” 

Panegyrics on the deceased were delivered. 

“A brilliant old drinker a was.” 

“Ess, an’ a clean lively one to touch the strings.” 

“Shan’t see his like no more.” 

“His spotty sow coming to her time too—an’ a 
brearly loved roast sucking pig, the pretty old boy.” 

Bohenna sat up in the grass and sniffed. 

“There’s a brear strong smell o’ burning, seem 
me ?” 

The company turned on him reproachfully. 
“Thou’st shotten Jiggy Dan. Shot en dead an’ 
a-cold. Didst put slugs in gun by mistake, Ned?” 

Bohenna scratched his head. “Couldn’t say 
rightly this time o’ night . . . maybe I did . . . 
but, look ’ee, there wasn’t no offense meant; ’twas 
done in good part, as you might say.” He sniffed 
again and stared at the corpse of his victim. 

“Slugs or no seem me the poor angel’s more hot 
than cold. Lord love, he’s afire! , . . The wad’s 
catched in his coat!” 

That such was the case became painfully appar¬ 
ent to the deceased at the same moment. He sprang 


150 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


to his feet and bounded round and round the group, 
uttering ghastly howls and belaboring himself be¬ 
hind in a fruitless endeavor to extinguish the smol¬ 
dering cloth. The onlookers were helpless with 
laughter; they leaned against each other and sobbed. 
Teresa in particular shook so violently it hurt her. 

Somebody suggested a bucket of water, between 
chokes, but nobody volunteered to fetch it; to do 
so would be to miss the fun. 

‘‘The stream,’^ hiccoughed Bohenna, holding his 
sides. “Sit ’ee down in stream, Dan, my old beauty, 
an’ quench thyself.” 

A loud splash in the further darkness announced 
that the unhappy musician had taken his advice. 

The apple trees fully secured for twelve months, 
the party returned to the kitchen, but the incident 
of Dan had dissipated the somewhat pious tone 
of the preceding events. Teresa, tears trickling 
down her cheeks, set going a fresh round of eggy- 
hot. Ortho pounced on Tamsin Eva, the prettiest 
girl in the room, carried her bodily under the kissing 
bush and saluted her again and again. Other men 
and boys followed suit. The girls fled round the 
kitchen in mock consternation, pursued by flushed 
swains, were captured and embraced, giggling and 
sighing. Jiggy Dan, sniffing hot liquor as a pointer 
sniffs game, limped, dripping, in from the stream, 
was given an old petticoat of Martha’s to cover his 
deficiencies, a pot of rum, propped up in a corner 
and told to fiddle for dear life. The men, headed 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


151 


by Ortho, cleared the kitchen of furniture, and then 
everybody danced old heel and toe country dances, 
skipped, bowed, sidled, passed up and down the 
middle and twirled around till the sweat shone like 
varnish on their scarlet faces. 

The St. Gwithian choir flung themselves into it 
heart and soul. They were expected at Monks Cove 
to sing carols, were overdue by some hours, but they 
had forgotten all about that. 

Teresa danced with the best, with grace and 
agility extraordinary in a woman of her bulk. She 
danced one partner off his feet and all but stunned 
another against the corner of the dresser, bringing 
most of the crockery crashing to earth. She then 
produced that relic of her vagabondage, the guitar, 
and joined forces with Jiggy Dan. 

The fun became furious. The girls shook the 
tumbled hair from their eyes, laughed roguishly; 
the men whooped and thumped the floor with their 
heavy boots. Jiggy Dan, constantly primed with 
rum by the attentive Martha, scraped and sawed at 
his fiddle, beating time with his toe. Teresa plucked 
at the guitar till it droned and buzzed like a hive 
of melodious bees. Occasionally she sang ribald 
snatches. She was in high feather, the reaction 
from nine months’ abstinence. The kitchen, lit by 
a pile of dry furze blazing in the open hearth, grew 
hotter and hotter. 

The dancers stepped and circled in a haze of dust, 
steaming like overdriven cattle. EH alone was out 


152 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of tune with his surroundings. The first effects of 
the drink had worn off, leaving him with a sour 
mouth and slightly dizzy. The warmer grew the 
others, the colder he became. 

He scowled at the junketers from his priggish al¬ 
titude and blundered bedward to find it already oc¬ 
cupied by the St. Gwithian blacksmith, who, dark 
with the transferable stains of his toil, lay sprawled 
across it, boots where his head should have been. 
Eli rolled the unconscious artificer to the floor (an 
act which in no way disturbed that worthy’s slum¬ 
bers) and turned in, sick and sulky. 

With Ortho, on the other hand, things were never 
better. He had not drunk enough to cloud him and 
he was getting a lot of fun out of Tamsin Eva and 
her “shiner.” Tamsin, daughter of the parish clerk, 
was a bronze-haired, slender creature with a skin 
like cream and roses and a pretty, timid manner. 
Ortho, satiated with swarthy gypsy charmers, 
thought her lovely and insisted upon dancing with 
her for the evening. That her betrothed was pres¬ 
ent and violently jealous only added piquancy to the 
affair. The girl was not happy—Ortho frightened 
her—but she had not enough strength of mind to 
resist him. She shot appealing glances at her swain, 
but the boy was too slow in his movements and 
fuddled with unaccustomed rum. The sober and 
sprightly Ortho cut the girl out from under his nose 
time and time again. Teresa, extracting appalling 
discords from the guitar, noted this by-play with 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


153 


gratification; this tiger cub of hers promised good 
sport. 

Towards one o’clock the supply of spirituous im¬ 
pulse having given out, the pace slackened down. 
Chastened husbands were led home by their wives. 
Single men tottered out of doors to get a breath 
of fresh air and did not return, were discovered at 
dawn peacefully slumbering under mangers, in hen 
roosts and out-of-the-way corners. Tamsin Eva’s 
betrothed was one of these. He was entering the 
house fired with the intention of wresting his lass 
from Ortho and taking her home when something 
hit him hard on the point of the jaw and all the 
lights went out. He woke up next morning far 
from clear as to whether he had blundered into the 
stone door post or somebody’s ready fist. At all 
events it was Ortho who took Tamsin home. 

Teresa fell into a doze and had an uncomfortable 
dream. All the people she disliked came and made 
faces at her, people she had forgotten ages ago and 
who in all decency should have forgotten her. They 
flickered out of the mists, distorted but recognizable, 
clutched at her with hooked fingers, pressed closer 
and closer, leering malevolently. Teresa was dis¬ 
mayed. Not a friend anywhere! She lolled for¬ 
ward, moaning, “John! Oh, Jan!” Jiggy Dan’s 
elbow hit her cheek and she woke up to an other¬ 
wise empty kitchen filled with the reek of burnt 
pilchard oil, a dead hearth, and cold night air pour¬ 
ing in through the open door. She shuddered. 


154 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


rubbed her sleepy lids and staggered, yawning, to 
bed. 

Jiggy Dan, propped up in the corner, fiddled on, 
eyes sealed, mind oblivious, arm sawing mechani¬ 
cally. 

They found him in the morning on the yard muck 
heap, Martha’s petticoat over his head, fiddle 
clasped to his bosom, back to back with a snoring 
sow. 

The Christmas festivities terminated on Twelfth 
Night with the visit of goose dancers from Monks 
Cove, the-central figure of whom was a lad wear¬ 
ing the hide and horns of a bullock attended by 
other boys dressed in female'attire. Horse-play and 
crude buffoonery was the feature rather than danc¬ 
ing, and Teresa got some more of her crockery 
smashed. 

Next morning Eli went to Helston for his last 
term and Ortho took off his coat. 

When Eli came home at midsummer he could 
hardly credit his eyes. Ortho had performed mira¬ 
cles. Very wisely he had not attempted to fight 
back the moor everywhere, but had concentrated, 
and the fields he had put in crop were done thor¬ 
oughly, deep-plowed, well manured and evenly sown 
—Penaluna could not make a better show. 

The brothers walked over the land on the eve¬ 
ning of Eli’s return; everywhere the young crops 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


155 


stood up thick and healthy, pushing forwards to 
fruition. Ortho glowed with justifiable pride, 
talked farming eagerly. He and Ned had given 
the old place a hammering, he said. By the Holy 
they had! Mended the buildings, whitewashed the 
orchard trees, grubbed, plowed, packed ore-weed 
and sea-sand, harrowed and hoed from dawn-blink 
to star-wink, day in, day out—Sundays included. 
But they’d get it all back—oh, aye, and a hundred¬ 
fold. 

Eli had been in the right; agriculture was the 
thing—the good old soil! You put in a handful 
and picked up a bushel in a few months. Cattle— 
pah! One cow produced but one calf per annum 
and that was not marketable for three or four years. 
No—wheat, barley and oats forever! 

Now Eli was home they could hold all they’d got 
and reclaim a field or so a year. In next to no 
time they’d have the whole place waving yellow from 
bound to bound. Ortho even had designs on the 
original moor, saw no reason why they should not 
do their own milling in time—they had ample water 
power. He glowed with enthusiasm. Eli’s cautious 
mind discounted much of these grandiose schemes, 
but his heart went out to Ortho; the mellowing 
fields before him had not been lightly won. 

Ortho was as lean as a herring-bone, sweated 
down to bare muscle and sinew. His finger nails 
were broken off short, his hands scarred and cal¬ 
loused, his face was torn with brambles and leathern 


156 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


with exposure. He had fought a good fight and was 
burning for more. Oh, splendid brother! 

Ned Bohenna was loud in Ortho’s praise. He 
was a marvel. He was quicker in the uptake than 
even John had been and no work was too hard for 
him. The old hind was most optimistic. They had 
seeded a fine area and crops were looking famous. 
Come three years at this pace the farm would be 
back where it was at John’s death, the pick of the 
parish. 

For the rest, there was not much news. Martha 
had been having the cramps severely of late and 
Wany was getting whister than ever. Said she was 
betrothed to a Spriggan earl who lived in the big 
barrow. He had promised to marry her as soon 
as he could get his place enlarged—he, he 1 

There had been a sea battle fought with gaffs 
and oars off the Gazells between Jacky’s George and 
a couple of Porgwarra boats. Both sides accused 
each other of poaching lobster pots. Jacky’s George 
sank a Porgwarra boat by dropping a lump of 
ballast through her—and then rescued the crew. 
They had seen a lot of Pyramus Herne, altogether 
too much of Pyramus Herne. He had come down 
with a bigger mob of horses and donkeys than usual 
and grazed them all over the farm—after dark. 
Seeing the way he had befriended Ortho, they could 
not well say much to him, especially as they had 
grass to spare at present; but it could not go on 
like that. 


THE OWLS' HOUSE 


157 


Eli buckled to beside the others. They got the 
hay in, and, while waiting for the crops to ripen, 
pulled down a bank (throwing two small fields into 
one), rebuilt a couple more, cleaned out the orchard, 
hoed the potatoes and put a new roof on the stables. 
They were out of bed at five every morning and into 
it at eight of an evening, dead-beat, soiled with earth 
and sweat, stained with sun and wind. They worked 
like horses, ate like wolves and slept like sloths. 

Ortho led everywhere. He was first afoot in the 
morning, last to bed at night. His quick mind dis¬ 
cerned the easiest way through difficulties, but when 
hard labor was inevitable he sprang at it with a 
cheer. His voice rang like a bugle round Bosnia, 
imperious yet merry. He was at once a captain and 
a comrade. 

Under long days of sunshine and gentle drenches 
of rain the crops went on from strength to strength. 
It would be a bumper year. 

Then came the deluge. Wany, her uncanny 
weather senses prickling, prophesied it two days in 
advance. Bohenna was uneasy, but Ortho, pointing 
to the serene sky, laughed at their fears. The next 
day the heat became oppressive, and he was not so 
sure. He woke at ten o’clock that night to a terrific 
clap of thunder, sat up in bed, and watched the little 
room flashing from black to white from the winks 
of lightning, his own shadow leaping gigantic across 
the illuminated wall; heard the rain come up the 
valley, roaring through the treetops like surf, break 


158 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


in a cataract over the Owls’ House and sweep on. 
“This’ll stamp us out . . . beat us flat,” he mut¬ 
tered, and lay wondering what he should do, if there 
was anything to do, and as he wondered merciful 
sleep came upon him, weary body dragging the spirit 
down with it into oblivion. 

The rain continued with scarcely less violence for 
a week, held off for two days and came down again. 
August crept out blear-eyed and draggle-tailed. 

The Penhales saved a few potatoes and about 
one-fifth of the cereals—^not enough to provide them 
with daily bread; they would actually have to buy 
meal in the coming year. Bohenna, old child of the 
soil, took the calamity with utter calm; he was in¬ 
ured to these bitter caprices of Nature. Ortho 
shrugged his shoulders and laughed. It was no¬ 
body’s fault, he said; they had done all they could; 
Penaluna had fared no better. The only course 
was to whistle and go at it again; that sort of thing 
could hardly happen twice running. He whistled 
and went at it again, at once, breaking stone out 
of a field towards Polmenna, but Eli knew that for 
all his brave talk the heart was out of him. There 
was a lassitude in his movements; he was merely 
making a show of courage. 

Gradually he slowed down. He began to visit 
the Kiddlywink of a night, and lay abed long after 
sunrise. 

At the end of October a fresh bolt fell out of 
the blue. The Crowan tin works, in which the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


159 


Penhale money was invested, suddenly closed^down. 
It turned out that they had been running at a loss 
for the last eight months in the hope of striking 
a new lode, a debt of three hundred pounds had been 
incurred, the two other shareholders were without 
assets, so, under the old Cost Book system current 
in Cornish mining, Teresa was liable for the whole 
sum. 

She was at first aghast, then furious; swore she’d 
have the law of the defaulters and hastened straight¬ 
way into Penzance to set her lawyer at them. For¬ 
tunately her lawyer was honest; she had no case 
and he told her so. When she returned home she 
was confronted by her sons; they demanded to know 
how they stood. She turned sulky and refused de¬ 
tails, but they managed to discover that there was 
not five pounds in the house, that there would be 
no more till the Tregors rent came in, and even then 
was pledged to money-lenders and shop-keepers— 
but as to the extent of her liabilities they could not 
find out. She damned them as a pair of ungrateful 
whelps and went to bed as black as thunder. 

Ortho had a rough idea as to the houses Teresa 
patronized, so next day the brothers went to town, 
and after a door to door visitation discovered that 
she owed in the neighborhood of four hundred 
pounds! Four plus three made seven—seven hun¬ 
dred pounds! What was it to come from? The 
Penhales had no notion. By selling off all their 
stock they might possibly raise two hundred. Two 


160 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


hundred, what was that? A great deal less than 
half. Their mother would spend the rest of her 
life in a debtor’s prison! Oh, unutterable shame! 

They doddered about Penzance, sunk in misery. 
Then it occurred to Ortho to consult the lawyer. 
These quill-driving devils were as cunning as dog 
foxes; what they couldn’t get round or over they’d 
wriggle through. 

The lawyer put them at their ease at once. Mort¬ 
gage Bosnia or Tregors . . . nothing simpler. 
Both strong farms should produce the required sum 
—and more. He explained the system, joined his 
finger-tips and beamed at the pair over the top. 

The brothers shifted on their chairs and pro¬ 
nounced for Tregors simultaneously. The lawyer 
nodded. Very well then. As soon as he got their 
mother’s sanction he would set to work. Ortho 
promised to settle his mother and the two left. 

Ortho had no difficulty with Teresa. He success¬ 
fully used the hollow threat of a debtor’s prison 
to her, for she had been in a lock-up several times 
during her roving youth and had no wish to return. 

Besides she was sick of debt, of being pestered 
for money here, there and everywhere. 

She gave her consent readily enough, and within a 
fortnight was called upon to sign. 

Carveth Donnithorne, the ever-prospering ship- 
chandler of Falmouth, was the mortgagee; nine hun¬ 
dred and fifty pounds was the sum he paid, and 
very good value it was. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


161 


Teresa settled the Crowan liabilities with the 
lawyer, and, parading round the town, squared all 
her other accounts in a single afternoon. She did 
it in style, swept into the premises of those who 
had pressed her, planked her money down, damned 
them for a pack of thieves and leeches, swore that 
was the end of her custom and stamped majestically 
out. 

She .finished up in a high state of elation. She 
had told a number of her enemies exactly what she 
thought of them, was free of debt and had a large 
sum of ready money in hand again—two hundred 
and fifty pounds in three canvas bags, the whole 
contained in a saddle wallet. 

Opposite the market cross she met an old crony, 
a retired ship captain by the name of Jeremiah Gish, 
and told him in detail what she had said to the shop¬ 
keepers. The old gentleman listened with all his 
ears. He admired Teresa immensely. He admired 
her big buxom style, her strength, her fire, but most 
of all he revered her for her language. Never in 
forty years seafaring had he met with such a flow 
of vituperation as Teresa could loose when roused, 
such range, such spontaneity, such blistering inven¬ 
tion. It drew him like music. He caught her affec¬ 
tionately by the arm, led her to a tavern, treated her 
to a pot of ale and begged her to repeat what she 
had said to the shop-keepers. 

Teresa, nothing loth, obliged. The old tarpaulin 
listened rapt, nodded his bald head In approval, an 


162 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


expression on his face of one who hears the chiming 
of celestial spheres. 

A brace of squires jingled in and hallooed to 
Teresa. Where had she been hiding all this time? 
The feasten sports had been nothing without her. 
She ought to have been at Ponsandane the week be¬ 
fore. They had a black bull in a field tied to a 
ship’s anchor. The ring parted and the bull went 
loose in the crowd with two dogs hanging on him. 
Such a screeching and rushing you never did seel 
Old women running like two-year-olds and young 
women climbing like squirrels and showing leg. . . . 
Oh, mercy! The squire hid his face in his hands 
and gulped. 

Teresa guffawed, took a pound out of one of 
the bags, strapped up the wallet again and sat on 
it. Then she called the pot boy and ordered a round 
of drinks. To blazes with economy for that one 
evening! 

The company drank to her everlasting good 
health, to her matchless eyes and cherry lips. One 
squire kissed her; she boxed his ears—not too hard. 
He saluted the hand that smote him. His friend 
passed his arm round her waist—she let it linger. 

Jerry Gish leaned forward and tapped her on 
the knee. “Tell ’em what you said to that draper, 
my blossom—ecod, yes, and to the Jew . . . tell 
em. 

Once more Teresa obliged. The company ap¬ 
plauded. Very apt; that was the way to talk to 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


163 


the sniveling swine! But her throat must be dry 
as a brick. They banged their pots. “Hey, boy! 
Another round, damme!” 

Other admirers drifted in and greeted Teresa 
with warmth. Where had she been all this time? 
They had missed her sorely. There was much re¬ 
joicing among the unjust over one sinner returned. 

Teresa’s soul expanded as a sunflower to the sun. 
They were all old friends and she was glad to be 
with them again. Twice more for the benefit of 
newcomers did Captain Gish prevail on her to re¬ 
peat what she had said to her creditors, and by 
general request she sang three songs. The pot boy 
ran his legs off that night. 

Towards eleven p. m. she shook one snoring ad¬ 
mirer from her shoulder, removed the hand of an¬ 
other from her lap, dropped an ironical curtsey to 
the prostrate gentlemen about her and, grasping 
the precious wallet, rocked unsteadily into the yard. 
She had to rouse an ostler to girth her horse up for 
her, and her first attempts at mounting met with dis¬ 
aster, but she got into the saddle at last, and once 
there nothing short of gunpowder could dislodge 
her. Her lids were like lead; drowsiness was crush¬ 
ing her. She kept more or less awake until Bucca’s 
Pass was behind, but after that she abandoned the 
struggle and sleep swallowed her whole. 

She was aroused at Bosula gate by the barking 
of her own dogs, unstrapped the wallet, turned the 
roan into the stable as it stood, and staggered up- 


164 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


stairs. Five minutes later she was shouting at the 
top of her lungs. She had been robbed; one of the 
hundred pound bags was missing! 

The household ran to her call. When had she 
missed it? Who had she been with? Where had 
she dropped it? Teresa was not clear about any¬ 
thing. She might have dropped it anywhere be¬ 
tween Penzance and home, or again she might have 
been robbed in the tavern or the streets. The point 
was that she had lost one hundred pounds and they 
had got to find it—now, at once! They were to 
take the road back, ransack the town, inform the 
magistrates. Out with them I Away! 

Having delivered herself, she turned over and 
was immediately asleep. 

Ortho went back to bed. He would go to Pen¬ 
zance if necessary, he said, but it was useless before 
dawn. Let the others look close at home first. 

Wany and Martha took a lantern and prodded 
about in the yard, clucking like hens. Eli lit a sec¬ 
ond lantern and went to the stable. Perhaps his 
mother had dropped the bag dismounting. He 
found the roan horse standing in its stall, unsaddled 
it, felt in the remaining wallet, turned over the litter 
—nothing. As he came out he noticed that the sec¬ 
ond horse was soaking wet. Somebody had been 
riding hard, could only have just got in before 
Teresa. Ortho of course. He wondered what his 
brother was up to. After some girl probably . . . 
he had heard rumors. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


165 


Martha reported the yard bare, so he followed 
the hoof tracks up the lane some way—nothing. 

Ortho was up at dawn, ready to go into town, 
but Teresa, whose recuperative powers were little 
short of marvelous, was up before him and went 
in herself. She found nothing on the road and got 
small consolation from the magistrates. 

People who mixed their drinks and their company 
when in possession of large sums of ready money 
should not complain if they lost it. She ought to 
be thankful she had not been relieved of the lot. 
They would make inquiries, of course, but held out 
no hope. There was an officer with a string of re¬ 
cruits in town, an Irish privateer and two foreign 
ships in the port, to say nothing of the Guernsey 
smugglers—the place was seething with covetous 
and desperate characters. They wagged their wigs 
and doubted if she would ever see her money again. 

She never did. 


CHAPTER XIII 


S OME three weeks after Teresa’s loss Eli found 
his brother in the yard fitting a fork-head to 
a new haft. 

“Saw William John Prowse up to Church-town,” 
said he. “He told me to tell you that you must 
take the two horses over to once because he’s got 
to go away.” 

Ortho frowned. Under his breath he consigned 
William John Prouse to eternal discomfort. Then 
his face cleared. 

“I’ve been buying a horse or two for Pyramus,” 
he remarked casually. “He’ll be down along next 
week.” 

Eli gave him a curious glance. Ortho looked up 
and their eyes met. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“It was you stole that hundred pounds from 
mother, I suppose.” 

Ortho started and then stared. “Me! My 
Lord, what next! Me steal that . . . well, I be 
damned! Think I’d turn toby and rob my own 
family, do you? Pick my right pocket to fill my 
left? God’s wrath, you’re a sweet brother!” 

“I do think so, anyhow,” said Eli doggedly. 
“How? Why?” 

“ ’Cos King Herne can do his own buying and 
166 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


167 


because on the night mother was robbed you were 
out.” 

Ortho laughed again. “Smart as a gauger, aren’t 
you? Well, now I’ll tell you. William John let 
me have the horses on trust, and as for being out, 
Fm out most every night. I’d been to Church- 
town. I’ve got a sweetheart there, if you must 
know. So now, young clever!” 

Eli shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 

“Don’t you believe me?” Ortho called. 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“ ’Cos ’tis well known William John Prowse 
wouldn’t trust his father with a turnip, and that 
Polly mare hadn’t brought you two miles from 
Gwithian. She’d come three times that distance and 
hard. She was as wet as an eel; I felt her.” 

Ortho bit his lip. “So ho, steady!” he called 
softly. “Come round here a minute.” 

He led the way round the corner of the barn 
and Eli followed. Ortho leaned against the wall, 
all smiles again. 

“See here, old son,” said he in a whisper, “you’re 
right. I did it. But I did it for you, for your 
sake, mind that.” 

“Me!” 

Ortho nodded. “Surely. Look you, in less than 
two years Tregors and this here place fall to me, 
don’t they?” 

“Yes,” said Eli. 


168 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Ortho tapped him on the chest. “Well, the min¬ 
ute I get possession I’m going to give you Tregors, 
lock, stock and barrel. That’s the way father meant 
it, I take it—^only he didn’t have time to put it in 
writing. But now Tregors is in the bag, and how 
are we going to get it out if mother will play chuck- 
guinea like she does?” 

“So that’s why you stole the money?” 

“That’s why—and, harkee, don’t shout ‘stole’ so 
loud. It ain’t stealing to take your own, is it?” 
Ortho whistled. “My Lord, I sweated, Eli! I 
thought some one would have it before I did. The 
whole of Penzance knew she’d been about town all 
day with a bag of money, squaring her debts and 
lashing it about. To finish up she was in a room 
at the ‘Star’ with a dozen of bucks, all of ’em 
three sheets in the wind and roaring. I seen them 
through a chink in the shutters and I tell you I 
sweated blood. But she’s cunning. When she sat 
down she sat on the wallet and stopped there. It 
would have taken a block and tackle to pull her 
off. I went into the ‘Star’ passage all muffled up 
about the face like as if I had jaw-ache. The pot 
boy came along with a round of drinks for the crowd 
inside. ‘Here, drop those a minute and fetch me 
a dash of brandy for God Almighty’s sake,’ says 
I, mumbling and talking like an up-countryman. 
‘I’m torn to pieces with this tooth. Here’s a silver 
shilling and you can keep the change if you’re quick. 
Oh, whew! Ouch I’ 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


169 


“I tossed him the shilling—the last I’d got—and 
he dropped the pots there and then and dived after 
the brandy. I gave the pots a good dusting with 
a powder Pyramus uses on rogue horses to keep 
’em quiet while he’s selling ’em. Then the boy came 
back. I drank the brandy and went outside again 
and kept watch through the shutters. It worked 
pretty quick; what with the mixed drinks they’d had 
and the powder, the whole crew was stretched snor¬ 
ing in a quarter hour. But not she. She’s as strong 
as a yoke of bulls. She yawned a bit, but when the 
others went down she got up and went after her 
horse, taking the wallet along. I watched her mount 
from behind the rain barrel in the yard and a pretty 
job she made of it. The ostler had to heave her 
up, and the first time she went clean over, up one 
side and down t’other. Second time she saved her¬ 
self by clawing the ostler’s hair and near clawed 
his scalp off; he screeched like a slit pig. 

“I watched that ostler as well, watched in case 
he might chance his fingers in the wallet, but he 
didn’t. She was still half awake and would have 
brained him if he’d tried it on. A couple of men— 
stranded seamen, I think—came out of an alley by 
the Abbey and dogged her as far as Lariggan, clos¬ 
ing up all the time, but when they saw me behind 
they gave over and hid in under the river bank. 
She kept awake through Newlyn, nodding double. 
I knew she couldn’t last much longer—the wonder 
was she had lasted so long. On top of Paul Hill 


170 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


I closed up as near as I dared and then went round 
her, across country as hard as I could flog, by 
Chyoone and Rosvale. 

“A dirty ride, boy; black as pitch and crossed 
with banks and soft bottoms. Polly fell down and 
threw me over her head twice . . . thought my 
neck was broke. We came out on the road again 
at Trevelloe. I tied Polly to a tree and walked back 
to meet ’em. They came along at a walk, the old 
horse bringing his cargo home like he’s done scores 
of times. 

“I called his name softly and stepped out of the 
bushes. He stopped, quiet as a lamb. Mother 
never moved; she was dead gone, but glued to the 
saddle. She’s a wonder. I got the wallet open, 
put my hand in and had just grabbed hold of a 
bag when Prince whinnied; he’d winded his mate, 
Polly, down the road. You know how it is when 
a horse whinnies; he shakes all through. Hey, but 
it gave me a start! It was a still night and the old 
brute sounded like a squad of trumpets shouting 
‘Ha!’ like they do in the Bible. ‘Ha, ha, ha, he, he, 
he!’ 

“I jumped back my own length and mother lolled 
over towards me and said soft-like, ‘Pass the can 
around.’ ” 

“That’s part of a song she sings,” said Eli, “a 
drinking song.” 

Ortho nodded. “I know, but it made me jump 
when she said it; she said it so soft-like. I thought 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE* 


171 


the horse had shaken her awake, and I ran for dear 
life. Before I’d gone fifty yards I knew I was 
running for nothing, but I couldn’t go back. It was 
the first time I’d sto . . . I’d done anything like 
that and I was scared of Prince whinnying again. 
I ran down the road with the old horse coming 
along clop-clop behind me, jumped on Polly and gal¬ 
loped home without looking back. I wasn’t long 
in before her as it was.” He drew a deep breath. 
“But I kept the bag and I’ve got it buried where she 
won’t find it.” He smiled at his own cleverness. 

“What are you going to do with the money?” 
Eli asked. 

“Buy horses cheap and sell ’em dear. I learnt 
a trick or two when I was away with Pyramus 
and I’m going to use ’em. There’s nothing like it. 
I’ve seen him buy a nag for a pound and sell it 
for ten next week. I’m going to make Pyramus 
take my horses along with his. They’ll be bought 
as his, so that people won’t wonder where I got 
the money, and they’ll go up-country and be sold 
with his—see? I’ve got it all thought out.” 

“But will Pyramus do it?” 

Ortho clicked his even white teeth. “Aye, I 
reckon he will ... if he wants to winter here 
again. How many two-pound horses can I buy for 
a hundred pounds?” 

“Fifty.” 

“And fifty sold at ten pounds each, how much is 
that?” 


172 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Five hundred pounds.” 

“How long will it take me to pay off the mortgage 
at that rate?” 

“Two years ... at that rate. But there’s the 
interest too, and . . .” 

Ortho smote him on the back. “Oh, cheerily, old 
long-face, all’s well! The rent’ll pay the interest, 
as thou thyself sayest, and I’ll fetch in the money 
somehow. We’ll harvest a mighty crop next sea¬ 
son and the horses’ll pay bags full. In two years’ 
time I’ll put my boot under that fat cheese-weevil 
Carveth and you shall ride into Tregors like a king. 
If only I could have got hold of that second hun¬ 
dred! You don’t know where mother hides her 
money, do you?” 

“No.” 

“No more do I . . . but I will. I’ll sit over her 
like a puss at a mouse hole. I’ll have some more 
of it yet.” 

“Leave it alone,” said Eli; “she’s sure to find 
out and then there’ll be the devil to pay. Besides, 
whatever you say about it being our money it don’t 
seem right. Leave it be.” 

Ortho threw an arm about his neck and laughed 
at him. 

Pyramus Herne arrived on New Year’s Eve and 
was not best pleased when Ortho announced his 
project. He had no wish to be bothered with extra 
horses that brought no direct profit to himself, but 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


173 


he speedily recognized that he had a new host to 
deal with, that young Penhale had cut his wisdom 
teeth and that if he wanted the run of the Upper 
Keigwin Valley he’d have to pay for it. So he 
smiled his flashing smile and consented, on the un¬ 
derstanding that he accepted no responsibility for 
any mishap and that Ortho found his own custom. 
The boy agreed to this and set about buying. 

He picked up a horse here and there, but mainly 
he bought broken-down pack mules from the mines 
round St. Just. He bought wisely. His purchases 
were a ragged lot, yet never so ragged but that 
they could be patched up. When not out looking 
for mules he spent practically all his time in the 
gypsy camp, firing, blistering, trimming misshapen 
hoofs, shotting roarers, filing and bishoping teeth. 
The farm hardly saw him; Eli and Bohenna put the 
seed in. 

Pyramus left with February, driving the biggest 
herd he had ever taken north. This, of course, in¬ 
cluded Ortho’s lot, but the boy had not got fifty 
beasts for his hundred pounds—he had got thirty- 
three only—^but he was still certain of making his 
four hundred per cent, he told Eli; mules were in 
demand, being hardy, long-lived and frugal, and his 
string were in fine fettle. With a few finishing 
touches, their blemishes stained out, a touch of the 
clippers here and there, a pinch of ginger to give 
them life, some grooming and a sleek over with an 
oil rag, there would be no holding the public back 


174 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


from them. He would be home for harvest, his 
pockets dribbling gold. 

He went one morning before dawn without telling 
Teresa he was going, jingled out of the yard, dressed 
in his best, astride one of Pyramus’ showiest colts. 
His tirade against gypsy life and his eulogy of the 
delights of home, delivered to Eli on his return from 
his first trip with Pyramus, had been perfectly hon¬ 
est. He had had a rough experience and was played 
out. 

But he was tired no longer. He rode to join 
Pyramus, singing the Helston Flurry Song: 

“Where are those Span-i-ards 
That made so brave a boast—O? 

They shall eat the gray goose feather 
And we will eat the roast—O.” 

Eli, leaning over the gate, listened to the gay 
voice dwindling away up the valley, and then turned 
with a sigh. 

Dawn was breaking, the mists were rolling up, 
the hills loomed gigantic in the half-light, studded 
with granite escarpments, patchworked with clumps 
of gorse, thorn and bracken—his battlefield. 

Ortho had gone again, gone singing to try his 
fortune in the great world among foreign multi¬ 
tudes. For him the dour grapple with the wilder¬ 
ness—and he was glad of it. He disliked foreign¬ 
ers, disliked taking chances. Here was something 
definite, something to lock his teeth in, something 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


175 


to be subdued by sheer dogged tenacity. He broke 
the news that Ortho had gone gypsying again that 
evening at supper. 

Teresa exploded like a charge of gun-powder. 
She announced her intention of starting after her 
son at once, dragging him home and having Pyra- 
mus arrested for kidnaping. Then she ramped up 
and down the kitchen, cursing everybody present 
for not informing her of Ortho’s intentions. When 
they protested that they had been as ignorant as 
herself, she damned them for answering her back. 

Eli, who came in for most of her abuse, slipped 
out and over the hill to Roswarva, had a long 
farming talk with Penaluna and borrowed a pamph¬ 
let on the prevention of wheat diseases. 

The leggy girl Mary sat in a corner sewing by 
the light of a pilchard chill and saying never a word. 
Just before Eli left she brought him a mug of cider, 
but beyond drinking the stuff he hardly noticed the 
act and even forgot to thank her. He found Teresa 
sitting up for him. She had her notched sticks and 
the two remaining money bags on the table in front 
of her. She looked worried. 

“Here,” she growled as her younger son entered. 
“Count this.” Eli counted. There was a round 
hundred pounds in the one bag and thirty-one 
pounds, ten shillings and fourpence in the other. He 
told her. 

“There was fifty,” said she. “How much have 
I spent then?” 


176 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


‘‘Eighteen pounds, ten shillings and eightpence.” 
Eli made a demonstration on his fingers. 

Teresa’s black eyebrows first rose and then 
crumpled together ominously. 

“Eighteen!” she echoed, and began to tick off 
items on her own fingers, mumbling sotto voce. She 
paused at the ninth finger, racked her brains for for¬ 
gotten expenditures and began the count over again. 

Eli sat down before the hearth and pulled his 
boots off. He could feel his mother’s suspicious 
eyes on him. Twice she cleared her throat as if 
to speak, but thought better of it. He went to 
bed, leaving her still bent over the table twiddling 
her notched stick. Her eyes followed him up the 
stairs, perplexed, angry, with a hot gleam in them 
like a spark in coal. 

So Ortho had found her hiding place after all 
and had robbed her so cleverly that she was not 
perfectly sure she had been robbed. Eli tumbled 
into bed wishing his brother were not quite so clever. 
He fell asleep and had a dream in which he saw 
Ortho hanging in chains which creaked as they 
swung in the night winds. 

Scared by the loss of her money, Teresa had 
another attack of extravagant economy during which 
the Tregors lease fell in. She promptly put up 
the rent; the old tenant refused to carry on and a 
new one had to be found. An unknown hind from 
Budock Water, near Falmouth, accepted the terms. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


177 


Teresa congratulated herself on a bright stroke of 
business and all went on as before. 

Eli and Bohenna worked out early and late; the 
weather could not have been bettered and the crops 
promised wonders. Eli, surveying the propitious 
fields, was relieved to think Ortho would be back 
for harvest, else he did not know how they would 
get it home. 

No word had come from the wanderer. None 
was expected, but he was sure to be back for August; 
he had sworn to be. Ortho was back on the fourth 
of July. 

Eli came in from work and, to his surprise, found 
him sitting in the kitchen relating the story of his 
adventures. He had a musical voice, a Gallic trick 
of gesticulation and no compunction whatever about 
laughing at his own jokes. His recital was most 
vivacious. 

Even Teresa guffawed—in spite of herself. She 
had intended to haul Master Ortho over an ex¬ 
ceedingly hot bed of coals when he returned, but 
for the moment she could not bring herself to it. 
He had started talking before she could, and his 
talk was extremely diverting; she did not want to 
interrupt it. Moreover, he looked handsomer than 
ever—tall, graceful, darkly sparkling. She was 
proud of him, her mother sense stirred. He was 
very like herself. 

From hints dropped here and there she guessed 


178 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


he had met with not a few gallant episodes on his 
travels and determined to sit up after the others 
had gone to bed and get details out of him. They 
would make spicy hearing. Such a boy must be 
irresistible. The more women he had ruined the 
better she would be pleased, the greater the tribute 
to her offspring. She was a predatory animal her¬ 
self and this was her own cub. As for the wigging, 
that could wait until they fell out about something 
else and she was worked up; fly at him in cold blood 
she could not, not for the moment. 

Ortho jumped out of his chair when Eli entered 
and embraced him with great warmth, commented 
on his growth, thumped the boy’s deep chest, 
pinched his biceps and called to Bohenna to behold 
the coming champion. 

“My Lord, but here’s a chicken that’ll claw the 
breast feathers out o’ thee before long, old fighting 
cock—thee or any other in Devon or Cornwall—eh, 
then?” 

Bohenna grinned and wagged his grizzled poll. 

“Stap me, little brother. I’d best keep a civil 
tongue before thee, seem me. Well, as I was say¬ 
ing—” 

He sat down and continued his narrative. 

Eli leaned against the settle, listening and looking 
at Ortho. He was evidently in the highest spirits, 
but he had not the appearance of a man with five 
hundred pounds in his possession. He wore the 
same suit of clothes in which he had departed and 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


179 


it was in an advanced state of dilapidation; the braid 
edging hung in strings, one elbow was barbarously 
patched with a square of sail-cloth and the other 
was out altogether. His high wool stockings were 
a mere network and his boots lamentable. How¬ 
ever that was no criterion; gypsying was a rough 
life and it would be foolish to spoil good clothes 
on it. Ortho himself looked worn and thin; he had 
a nasty, livid cut running the length of his right 
cheek bone and the gesticulating palms were raw 
with open blisters, but his gay laugh rang through 
the kitchen, melodious, inspiring. He bore the air 
of success; all was well, doubtless. 

Eli fell to making calculations. Ortho had five 
hundred pounds, Teresa still had a hundred; that 
made six. Ortho would require a hundred as capital 
for next year, and then, if he could repeat his suc¬ 
cess, they would be out of the trap. He felt a rush 
of affection for his brother, ragged and worn from 
his gallant battle with the world—and all for his 
sake. Tregors mattered comparatively little to 
Ortho, since he was giving it up and was fully pro¬ 
vided for with Bosula. Ortho’s generosity over¬ 
whelmed him. There was nobody like Ortho. 

The gentleman in question finished an anecdote 
with a clap of laughter, sprang to his feet, pinned 
his temporarily doting mother in her chair and 
kissed her, twitched Martha’s bonnet strings loose, 
punched Bohenna playfully in the chest, caught Eli 
by the arm and swung him into the yard. 


180 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Come across to the stable, my old dear; IVe 
got something to show you.” 

“Horse?” 

“Lord, no! I’ve got no horse. Walked from 
Padstow.” 

“You I—walked!” 

“Yes, heel and toe . . . two days. God, my feet 
are sore!” 

“How did you come to get to Padstow?” 

“Collier brig from Cardiff. Had to work my 
passage at that; my hands are like raw meat from 
hauling on those damned braces—look! Slept in a 
cow-shed at Illogan last night and milked the cows 
for breakfast. I’ll warrant the farmer wondered 
why they were dry this morning—ha, ha! Never 
mind, that’s all over. What do you think of this?” 

He reached inside the stable door and brought 
out a new fowling piece. 

“Bought this for you in Gloucester,” said he; 
“thought of you the minute I saw it. It’s pounds 
lighter than father’s old blunderbuss, and look here 
. . . this catch holds the priming and keeps it dry; 
pull the trigger, down comes the hammer, knocks 
the catch up and bang! See? Clever, ain’t it? 
Take hold.” 

Eli took hold of the gun like a man in a dream. 
Beautiful weapon though it was, he did not even 
look at it. 

“But why . . . why did you work your passage?” 
he asked. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


181 


“Because they wouldn’t carry me for nothing, 
wood-head.” 

“Were you trying to save money?” 

“Eh?—er—ye-es.” 

“Have you done as well as you expected, Ortho?” 

“N-o, not quite. IVe had the most damnable 
luck, old boy.” He took Eli’s arm. “You never 
heard of such bad luck in your life—and none of 
it my fault. I sold a few mules at first at good 
prices, but the money went—a man must eat as 
he goes, you know—and then there was that gun; it 
cost a pretty penny. Then trouble began. I lost 
three beasts at Tewkesbury. They got scared in 
the night. One broke a shoulder and two went over 
a quarry. But at Hereford . . . Oh, my God!” 

“What happened?” 

“Glanders. They went like flies. Pyramus saw 
what it was right off, and we ran for it, south, sell¬ 
ing horses to the first bid; that is, we tried to, but 
they were too sick and word went faster than we. 
The crowd got ugly, swore we’d infected the coun¬ 
try and they’d hang us; they would have, too, if 
we’d waited. They very nearly had me, boy, very 
nearly.” 

“Did they mark your face like that?” 

“They did, with a lump of slate. And that isn’t 
all. I’ve got half a dozen more like it scattered 
about.” He laughed. “But no matter; they didn’t 
get me and I’m safe home again, thank God!” 

“And the horses?” 


182 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

“They killed every one of ’em to stop the infec¬ 
tion.” 

“Then you haven’t got any money?” 

Ortho shook his head. “Not a penny.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


M isfortune did not daunt Ortho for 
long; the promising state of the home fields 
put fresh heart in him. He plunged at the 
work chanting a paean in praise of agriculture, tore 
through obstacles and swept up his tasks with a. 
speed and thoroughness which left Eli and Bohenna 
standing amazed. 

The Penhale brothers harvested a record crop 
that season—^but so did everybody else. The mar¬ 
ket was glutted and prices negligible. Except that 
their own staple needs were provided for, they were 
no better off than previously. Eli did not greatly 
care—he had done what he had set out to do, bring 
a good crop home—but Ortho fell into a state of 
profound gloom; it was money that he wanted. 

It seemed to make little difference in agriculture 
whether you harvested a bumper yield or none at 
all. He had no capital to start in the second-hand 
horse trade again—even did he wish to—and he had 
no knowledge of any other business. He was on 
the desperate point of enlisting in the army on the 
chance of being sent abroad and gathering in a 
little loot, when opportunity rapped loudly on his 
door. 


183 


184 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


He had run down towards Tol-Pedn-Penwith 
with Jacky’s George one afternoon in late Septem¬ 
ber. It was a fine afternoon, with a smooth sea, 
and all the coves between Merther Point and Cam 
Scathe were full of whitebait. They crowded close 
inshore in dense shoals, hiding from the mackerel. 
When the mackerel charged them they stampeded 
in panic, frittering the surface like wind-flaws. The 
gig’s crew attacked the attackers and did so well 
that they did not notice the passage of time. 

Jacky’s George came to his senses as the sun 
slipped under, and clapped on all sail for home. 
He appeared in a hurry. By the time they were 
abreast of the Gamper, the wind, which had been 
backing all the afternoon, was a dead-muzzier. 
Jacky’s George did what he was seldom known to 
do; he blasphemed, ported his helm and ran on a 
long leg out to sea. By ten o’clock they had leveled 
Boscawen Point, but the wind fell away altogether 
and they were becalmed three miles out in the Chan¬ 
nel. Jacky’s George blasphemed again and ordered 
oars out. The gig was heavy and the tide against 
them. It took Ortho and three young Baragwa- 
naths an hour and a half to open Monks Cove. 

Ortho could not see the reason of it, of wrench¬ 
ing one’s arms out, when in an hour or two the 
tide would carry them in. However, he knew bet¬ 
ter than to question Jacky’s George’s orders. Even 
when Monks Cove was reached the little man did 
not go in, but pointed across for Black Cam. As 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


185 


they paddled under the lee of the cape there came 
a peculiar whistle from the gloom ahead, to which 
the bow-oar responded, and Ortho made out a boat 
riding to a kedge. They pulled alongside and made 
fast. It was the second Baragwanath gig, with the 
eldest son, Anson, and the remainder of the brothers 
aboard. 

“Who’s that you got wid ’e?” came the hushed 
voice of Anson. 

“Ortho Penhale,” his father replied. “Hadn’t 
time to put en ashore—becalmed way out. Has a 
showed up yet?” 

“Naw, a’s late.” 

“Ess. Wind’s felled away. All quiet in Cove?” 

“Ess, sure. Every road’s watched and Ma’s got 
a furze stacked up to touch off if she gets warn¬ 
ing.” 

“All right . . . well, keep your eye peeled for 
his signal.” 

Light suddenly broke on Ortho. There was a 
run on and he was in it—thrilling! He leaned to¬ 
wards Jacky’s George and whispered, “Who’s com¬ 
ing? Roscoff boat?” 

Jacky’s George uttered two words which sent an 
electric quiver through him: 

“King Nick.” 

King Nick. Captain Nicholas Buzza, prince of 
Free Traders, the man who had made more runs 
than all the rest put together, who owned a fleet 
of armed smugglers and cheated the Revenue of 


186 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


thousands a year. Who had fooled the riding offi¬ 
cers times out of number and beaten off the Militia. 
Who had put to sea after a big privateer sent to 
suppress him, fought a running fight from Godrevy 
to Trevose and sent her diving down the deep sea. 
The mercurial, dare-devil King Nick who was said 
to be unable to sleep comfortably unless there was 
a price on his head; who had raided Penzance by 
the light of the moon and recaptured a lost cargo; 
who had been surprised by the gaugers off Cawsand, 
chopped to bits with cutlasses, left for dead—and 
then swam ashore; who was reported to walk 
through Peter Port with all the Guernsey merchants 
bowing low before him, was called “Due de Ros- 
coff” in Brittany, and commanded more deference in 
Schiedam than its own Burgomaster. King Nick, 
the romantic idol of every West Country boy, com¬ 
ing to Monks Cove that very night, even then mov¬ 
ing towards them through the dark. Ortho felt 
as if he were about to enter the presence of Al¬ 
mighty God. 

“Is it a*big run?” he whisperedto Jacky’s George, 
trembling with excitement. 

“Naw, main run was at Porthleven last night. 
This is but the leavings. A few trifles for the Kid- 
dlywink to oblige me.” 

“Is King Nick a friend of yours, then?” said 
Ortho, wide-eyed. 

“Lord save you, yes! We was privateering to¬ 
gether years ago.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 187 

Ortho regarded the fisherman with added venera¬ 
tion. 

“If a don’t come soon a’ll miss tide,” Anson 
hissed from the other boat. 

“He’ll come, tide or no tide,” snapped his father. 
“Hold tongue, will ’e? Dost want whole world 
to hear?” 

Anson subsided. 

There was a faint mist clouding the sea, but 
overhead rode a splendor of stars, an illimitable 
glitter of silver dust. Nothing was to be heard but 
the occasional scrape of sea-boots as one cramped 
boy or other shifted position, the wail of a disturbed 
sea bird* from the looming rookeries above them, 
the everlasting beat of surf on the Twelve Apostles 
a mile away to the southwest and the splash and 
sigh of some tired ninth wave heaving itself over 
the ledges below Black Cam. 

An hour went by. Ashore a cock crowed, and a 
fisherman’s donkey, tethered high up the cliff-side, 
roared asthmatically in reply. The boats swung 
round as the tide slackened and made. The night 
freshened. Ripples lapped the bows. The land 
wind was* blowing. Ortho lay face-down on the 
stroke thwart and yawned. Adventure—if adven¬ 
ture there was to be^—was a long time coming. He 
was getting cold. The rhythmic lift and droop of 
the gig, the lisp and chuckle of the water voices 
had a hypnotic effect on him. He pillowed his cheek 
on his forearms and drowsed, dreamt he was sway- 


188 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ing In gloomy space, disembodied, unsubstantial, 5 
wraith dipping and soaring over a bottomless void. 
Clouds rolled by him big as continents. He saw 
the sun and moon below him no bigger than pins’ 
heads and world upon glittering world strewn across 
the dark like grains of sand. He could not have 
long lain thus, could not have fallen fully asleep, 
for Anson’s first low call set him wide awake. 

“Sail ho!” 

Both boats’ crews sat up as one man. 

“Where away?” 

“Sou’-east.” 

Ortho’s eyes bored Into the hollow murk sea¬ 
wards, but could distinguish nothing for the mo¬ 
ment. Then, as he stared, it seemed to him that 
the dark smudge that was the corner of the 
Cam was expanding westwards. It stretched and 
stretched until, finally, a piece detached Itself alto¬ 
gether and he knew it was a big cutter creeping 
close inshore under full sail. Never a wink of light 
did the stranger show. 

“Hast lantern ready?” hissed Jacky’s George. 

“Aye,” from Anson. 

“Cast off there, hoist klllick and stand by.” 

“Aye, aye!” 

The blur that was the cutter crept on, silent as 
a shadow, almost indistinguishable against the fur¬ 
ther dark, a black moth on black velvet. All eyes 
watched her. Suddenly a green light glowed amid¬ 
ships, stabbing the inky waters with an emerald 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


189 


dagger, glowed steadily, blinked out, glowed again 
and vanished. Ortho felt his heart bound into his 
throat. 

“Now,” snapped Jacky’s George. “Show lantern 
. . . four times, remember.” 

Anson stood up and did as he was bid. 

The green lantern replied, the cutter rounded 
up in the wind and drifted towards them, tide- 
borne. 

“Out oars and pull,” said Jacky’s George. 

They swept within forty yards of the cutter. 

“ ’Vast pulling,” came a voice from her bows. 

“Back water, all!” Jacky’s George commanded. 

“Is that George Baragwanath?” came the voice 
again, a high-pitched, kindly voice, marvelously 
clear. 

“Aye, aye!” 

“What’s the word then, my dear?” 

“Hosannah!” 

“What’s that there boat astern of ’e?” 

“Mine—my second boat.” 

“Well, tell him to keep off a cable’s length till 
I’ve seen to ’e,” the amiable voice continued. “If 
he closes ’fore I tell en I’ll blow him outer the 
water as God is my salvation. No offense meant, 
but we can’t take chances, you understand. Come 
ahead, you.” 

The gig’s crew gave way and brought their craft 
alongside the smuggler. 

“One at a time,” said the voice somewhere in 


190 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the darkness above them, mild as a ringdove. 
“George, my dear soul, step up alone, will ’e, 
please?” 

Jacky^s George went over the rail and out of 
sight. 

Ortho heard the voice greet him affectionately 
and then attend to the helmsman. 

“Back fore-sail, Zebedee; she’ll jam ’tween wind 
and tide. No call to anchor. We’ll have this little 
deck load off in ten minutes, please God, amen! 
There it is all before you, George—low Hollands 
proof, brandy, sugar, and a snatch of snuff. Tally 
it, will you, please. We’re late. I’m afraid. I was 
addressing a few earnest seekers after grace at 
Rosudgeon this afternoon and the word of the Lord 
came upon me and I spake overlong, I fear, trem¬ 
bling and sweating in my unworthiness—and then 
the wind fell very slight. I had to sweep her along 
till, by God’s infinite mercy, I picked up this shore 
draught. Whistle up your second boat and we’ll 
load ’em both sides to once. You haven’t been 
washed in the blood of the Lamb as yet, have you, 
George? Ah, that it might be vouchsafed this-un¬ 
worthy vessel to purge you with hyssop! I must 
have a quiet talk with you. Steady with them tubs 
Harry; you’ll drop ’em through the gig.” 

For the next quarter of an hour Ortho was busy 
stowing casks lowered by the cutter’s crew, but all 
the time the sweet voice went on. It seemed to be 
trying to persuade Jacky’s George into something 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


191 


he would not do. He could hear the pair tramping 
the deck above him side by side—one, two, three, 
four and roundabout, one, two, three, four and 
roundabout—the voice purling like a melodious 
brook; Jacky’s George’s gruff negatives, and the 
brook purling on again unruffled. Nobody else on 
the cutter uttered a sound; it might have been 
manned by a company of mutes. 

Anson called from the port side that he was 
loaded. Jacky’s George broke off his conversation 
and crossed over. 

“Pull in then. Soon’s you’ve got ’em stowed 
show a spark and I’ll follow.” 

Anson’s gig disappeared shorewards, wallowing 
deep. Jacky’s George gripped a stay with his hook 
and swung over the rail into his own boat. 

“I can’t do it, cap’n,” he called. “Good night 
and thank ’e kindly all the same. Cast off!” 

They were away. It burst upon Ortho that he 
had not seen his hero—that he never would. In a 
minute the tall cutter would be fading away sea¬ 
wards as mysteriously as she had come and the 
great King Nick would be never anything to him 
but a voice. He could have cried out with disap¬ 
pointment. 

“Push off,” said Jacky’s George. 

Ortho leant on his oar and pushed and, as he 
did so, somebody sprang from, the cutter’s rail, 
landed on the piled casks behind him as lightly as 
a cat, steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder 


192 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


and dropped into the stern-sheets beside the fisher¬ 
man. 

“Coming ashore wid ’e, George,” said the voice, 
“and by God’s grace I’ll persuade ’e yet.” 

King Nick was in the boat I 

“Mind what I bade ’e, Zebedee,” he hailed the 
cutter. “Take she round to once and I’ll be off to¬ 
morrow night by God’s providence and loving-kind¬ 
ness.” The cutter swung slowly on her heel, drifted 
beam on to the lapping tide, felt her helm and was 
gone, blotted out, swallowed up, might never have 
been. 

But King Nick was in the boat! Ortho could not 
see him—he was merely a smudged silhouette—but 
he was in the stern-sheets not a yard distant. Their 
calves were actually rubbing! Could such things 
be? 

They paddled in and hung a couple of cables’ 
length off shore waiting Anson’s signal. The smug¬ 
gler began his argument again, and this time Ortho 
heard all; he couldn’t help it. 

“Think of the money in it, George. You’ve got 
a growing family. Think o’ your duty to them.” 

“I reckon they won’t starve—why won’t the bay 
men do ’e?” 

“ ’Cos there’s a new collector coming to Penzance 
and a regiment o’ dragoons, and you know what they 
rogues are—‘their mouth is full of cursing and bit¬ 
terness, their feet are swift to shed blood”—nothing 
like they poor lambs the militia. Won’t be able to 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


193 


move a pack horse between Mousehole and Ma- 
razion wid they lawless scum about—God ha’ mercy 
on ’em and pardon ’em!” 

“Who told ’e new collector and sojers is com¬ 
ing?” 

“The old collector, Mr. Hawkesby. Took him a 
pin o’ crafty old Jamaica with my respects only last 
Tuesday and he showed me the letter signed and 
sealed. An honorable Christian gentleman is Mr. 
Hawkesby; many a holy discourse have I had with 
him. He wouldn’t deceive me. No, George, 
‘Strangers are risen up against me and tyrants.’ . . . 
‘Lo, the ungodly bend their bow.’ ” 

“Umph! Well, why don’t ’e run it straight on 
north coast, handy to market?” 

King Nick’s voice took on a slightly pained tone. 
“George, George, my dear life, ponder, will ’e? 
Consider where between St. Ives and Sennen can I 
run a cargo. And how many days a week in winter 
can I land at Sennen—eh? Not one. Not one in 
a month hardly. ‘He gathereth the waters of the 
sea together, as it was upon a heap.’ Psalm thirty- 
three. And it’s in winter that the notable hard 
drinking’s done, as thou well knowest. What else 
is the poor dear souls to do in the long bitter eve¬ 
nings? Think o’ they poor St. Just tinners down 
in the damp and dark all day. ’Tis the duty of 
any man professing Christian love and charity to 
assist they poor souls to get a drop of warm liquor 
cheap. What saith the Book? ‘Blessed is he that 


194 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


considereth the poor and needy.’ Think on that, 
George.” There were tears in the melodious brook. 

Jacky’s George grunted. “Dunno as I’ve got any 
turrible love for tinners. The last pair o’ they 
mucky toads as corned here pretty nigh clawed my 
house down. Why not Porgwarra or Penberth?” 

“ ’Cos there aren’t a man there I’d trust, George. 
I wouldn’t put my trust en nobody but you—^‘The 
faithful are minished from among the sons o’ men.’ 
You run a bit for yourself; why can’t ’e run a bit 
more and make a fortune? What’s come over ’e, 
my old and bold? ’Fraid, are ’e, all to once? What 
for? You’ve got a snug landing and a straight 
track over the moors, wid never a soul to see ’e 
pass. Riders can’t rush ’e here in this little crack 
o’ the rocks; they’d break their stiff necks. ‘Let 
their way be dark and slippery and let the angel 
of the Lord persecute them: and we shall wash our 
footsteps in the blood of the ungodly.’ What makes 
’e hold back, old shipmate?” 

“Horses,” said Jacky’s George. “Lookee, Cap’n 
Nick, the money’s good and I do respect it as much 
as the next man. I aren’t ’fraid of riders nor any¬ 
thing else—save tumors—-and if it were only a mat¬ 
ter of landing, why. I’d land’s much stuff as you’ve 
a mind to. But carry goods to St. Just for ’e, I 
won’t, for that means horses, and horses means 
farmers. I’m bred to the sea myself and I can’t 
abide farmers. I’ve tried it before and there’s al¬ 
ways trouble. It do take a week walking round 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


195 

the earth collecting ’em, and then some do show 
up and some don’t, and where are we then? Why, 
where the cat was—in the tar-barrel. Paul farmers 
won’t mix wid Gwithian, and Sancreed can’t stomach 
neither. And, what is more, they do eat up all 
your profits-—five shillings here, ten shillings there 
—and that ain’t the end of it. When you think 
you’ve done paying a farmer, slit me, you’ve only 
just begun. I won’t be plagued wid ’em, so that’s 
the finish.” 

“Listen to me a minute,” King Nick purled on, 
quite undeterred. “I’ll tell ’e. ...” 

“T’eddn no manner of use, cap’n,” said Jacky’s 
George, standing up. “There’s the light showing. 
Way all! Bend to it!” 

The gig shot shorewards for the slip. 

The manner in which the Baragwanath family dis¬ 
posed of a run contained the elements of magic. It 
was a conjuring trick, no less—“now you see it, now 
you don’t.” At one moment the slip-head was 
chockablock with bales and barrels; at the next it 
was bare. They swooped purposefully out of no¬ 
where, fell upon the goods and—hey, presto!— 
spirited themselves back into nowhere, leaving the 
slip wiped clean. 

Including one son and two daughters-in-law, the 
tribe mustered fourteen in all, and in the handling 
of illicit merchandise the ladies were as gifted as 
the gentlemen. Ortho was laboriously trundling a 
cask up the slip when he encountered one of the 


196 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Misses Baragwanath, who gave him a push and took 
the matter out of his hands. By the time he had 
recovered his balance she had gone and so had the 
cask. It was too dark to see which way she went. 
Not that he was interested; on the contrary, he 
wanted to think. He had a plan forming in his 
head, a money-making plan. 

He strode up and down the bare strip by the 
boat capstan getting the details clear. It did not 
take him long, being simplicity itself. He hitched 
his belt and marched up the little hamlet hot with 
inspiration. 

Subdued mysterious sounds came from the sur¬ 
rounding darkness, whispering thuds, shovel scrap¬ 
ings, sighs as of men heaving heavy weights. A 
shed suddenly exploded with the clamour of startled 
hens. In another a sow protested vocally against 
the disturbance of her bed. There was a big bank 
running beside the stream in front of “The Admiral 
Anson.” As Ortho passed by the great mass of 
earth and bowlders became articulate. A voice deep 
within its core said softly, “Shift en a bit further 
up, Zack; there’s three more to come.” 

Ortho saw a thin chink of light between two of 
the bowlders, grinned and strode into the kitchen 
of the Kiddlywink. There was a chill burning on 
the table and a kettle humming on the hearth. 
Jacky’s George sat before the fire, stirring a mug 
of grog which he held between his knees. Opposite 
him sat a tall old man dressed in unrelieved black 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


197 


from neck to toe. A wreath of snowy hair circled 
his bald pate like a halo. A pair of tortoise-shell 
spectacles jockeyed the extreme tip of his nose, he 
regarded Jacky’s George over their rims with an 
expression benign but pained. 

Jacky’s George looked up at Ortho’s entrance. 

“Hallo, what is it?” 

“Where’s King Nick? I want to see him.” 

The tortoise-shell spectacles turned slowly in his 
direction. 

“There is but one King, my son, omnipotent and 
all-merciful. One King—on High . . , but my 
name is certainly Nicholas.” 

Ortho staggered. This the master-smuggler, the 
swashbuckling, devil-may-care hero of song and 
story! This rook-coated, bespectacled, white- 
headed old Canorum * local preacher. King Nick I 
His senses reeled. It could never be, and yet he 
knew it was. It was the same voice, the voice 
that had blandly informed Anson he would blow 
him out of the water if he pulled another stroke. 
He felt for the door post and leaned against it 
goggling. 

“Well?” 

Ortho licked his lips. 

“Well? I eddn no fiery dragon to eat ’e, boy. 
Say thy say.” 

Ortho drew a long breath, hesitated and let it 
out with a rush. 


* Methodist 


198 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“I can find the horses you’re wanting. I can 
find thirty horses a night any time after Twelfth 
Night, and land your goods in St. Just under four 
hours.” 

King Nick screwed round in his chair, turning the 
other side of his face to the light, and Ortho saw, 
with a shock of revulsion, that the ear had been 
sheared off and his face furrowed across and across 
with two terrible scars—relics of the Cawsand af¬ 
fair. It was as though the old man was revealing 
the other side of him, spiritual as well as physical. 

“Come nearer, lad. How do ’e knaw I want 
horses?” 

“I heard you. I was pulling stroke in boat.” 

“Son o’ yourn, George? He don’t favor ’e, seem 
me.” 

“Naw. Young Squire Penhale from Bosula up- 
valley.” 

“You knaw en?” 

“Since he were weaned.” 

“Ah, ha! Ah, ha!” The smuggler’s blue eyes 
rested on Ortho, benevolent yet probing. “And 
where can you find thirty horses, my son? ’Tis a 
brear passell.” 

“Gypsy Herne rests on my land over winter; he 
has plenty.” 

“An Egyptian! Anidolator! A worshiper after 
false gods! Put not thy trust in such, boy—though 
I do hear many of the young ones is baptized and 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


199 


coming to the way of Light. Hum! Hal . . . 
But how do ’e knaw he’ll do it!” 

“ ’Cos he wants the money bad. He lost three 
parts of his stock in Wales this summer. I was 
with en.” 

“Oh, wid en, were ’e? So you knawn en well. 
And horse leaders?” 

“There’s seven Romanies and three of us up to 
farm.” 

“You knaw the country, s’pose?” 

“Day or night like my own yard.” 

King Nick turned on Jacky’s George, a faint smile 
curling the corners of his mouth. “What do ’e say 
now, George ? Can this young man find the horses, 
think you?” 

“Ess, s’pose.” 

“Do ’e trust en?” 

A nod. 

“Then what more ’ave ’e got to say, my dear?” 

The fisherman scratched his beard, breathed heav¬ 
ily through his nostrils and said, “All right.” 

King Nick rose to his feet, rubbing his hands 
together. 

“ ‘Now let Jacob rejoice and Israel be glad.’ 
That’s settled. Welcome back to the fold, George, 
my old soul. ‘This is my brother that was dead 
but is alive again.’ Soon’s you give me word the 
Romany is agreeable I’ll slip ’e the cargoes, so shall 
the poor tinner be comforted at a reasonable price 


200 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


and the Lord be praised with cymbals—‘y^a, with 
trumpets also and shawms.’ Gather in all the young 
men and maidens, George, that we may ask a bless¬ 
ing on our labors! Fetch ’em in to once, for I can 
feel the word of the Lord descending upon me!” 

Dawn peering through the bottle-panes of Jacky’s 
George’s Kiddlywink saw the entire Baragwanath 
family packed shoulder to shoulder singing lustily, 
while before them, on a chair, stood a benevolent 
old gentleman in black beating time with one of 
John Wesley’s hymnals, white hair wreathing his 
head like a silver glory. 

“Chant, my dear beauties!” he cried. “Oh, be 
cheerful! Be jubilant! Lift up your voices unto 
the Lord! ‘Awake up, my glory, Awake lute and 
harp!’ Now all together!” 

“When passing through the watery deep 
I ask in faith His promised aid; 

The waves an awful distance keep 
And shrink from my devoted-head.” 


CHAPTER XV 


P YRAMUS came down earlier than usual that 
year. The tenth of December saw his smoke- 
grimed wigwams erected in the little wood, 
the cloaks and scarves of the Romany women mak¬ 
ing bright blots of color among the somber trees, 
bronze babies rolling among bronze leaves. 

Ortho was right; the gypsy chief had been hard 
hit and was open to any scheme for recouping his 
fortunes. After considerable haggling he consented 
to a fee of six shillings per horse per run—leaders 
thrown in—which was a shilling more than Ortho 
had intended to give him and two shillings more 
than he would have taken if pressed. The cavalry 
had not arrived as yet, and Ortho did not think 
it politic to inform Pyramus they were expected; 
there were the makings in him of a good business 
man. 

The first run was dated for the night of January 
the third, but the heavy ground swell was rolling 
in and the lugger lay off until the evening of the 
fifth. King Nick arrived on the morning of the 
third, stepped quietly into the kitchen of the “Ad¬ 
miral Anson” as the Baragwanath family were sit¬ 
ting down to breakfast, having walked by night 
from Germoe. The meal finished, he gave melodi- 
201 


202 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ous thanks to Heaven, sent for Ortho, asked what 
arrangements had been made for the landing, con¬ 
demned them root and branch and substituted an en¬ 
tirely fresh lot. That done, he rode off to St. Just 
to survey the proposed pack route, taking Ortho 
with him. 

He was back again by eight o’clock at night and 
immediately held a prayer-meeting in the Kiddly- 
wlnk, preaching on “Lo, he thirsteth even as a hart 
thirsteth after the water brooks”—a vindication of 
the gin traffic—and passing on to describe the pains 
of hell with such graphic detail that one Cove 
woman fainted and another had hysterics. 

The run came off without a hitch two nights later. 
Ortho had his horses loaded up and away by nine 
o’clock. At one-thirty a crowd of enthusiastic dig¬ 
gers (all armed with clubs) were stripping his load 
and secreting it in an old mine working on the out¬ 
skirts of St. Just. He was home in bed before 
dawn. Fifty-six casks of mixed gin, claret and 
brandy they carried that night, not to mention five 
hundredweight of tea. 

On January 17th he carried forty-three casks, a 
bale of silk and a hundredweight of tea to Pendeen, 
dumping some odds and ends outside Gwithian as 
he passed by. And so it went on. 

The consumption of cheap spirits among the 
miners was enormous. John Wesley, to whose 
credit can be placed almost the whole moral re¬ 
generation of the Cornish tinner, describes them 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


203 


as “those who feared not God nor regarded man,” 
accuses them of wrecking ships and murdering the 
survivors and of taking their pleasure in “hurling, 
at which limbs are often broken, fighting, drinking, 
and all other manner of wickedness.” 

In winter their pastimes were restricted to fight¬ 
ing and drinking—principally drinking—in further¬ 
ance of which Ortho did a roaring trade. Between 
the beginning of January and the end of March he 
ran an average of five landings a month without any 
one so much as wagging a finger at him. The dra¬ 
goons arrived at Christmas, but instead of a regi¬ 
ment two troops only appeared and they speedily 
declared a policy of “live and let live.” Their com¬ 
manding officer. Captain Hambro, had not returned 
to his native land after years of hard campaigning 
to spend his nights galloping down blind byways 
at the behest of a civilian riding officer. 

He had some regard for his horses’ legs and 
more for his own comfort. He preferred playing 
whist with the local gentry, who had fair daughters 
and who were the soul of hospitality. He tem¬ 
porized good-humoredly with the collector, danced 
quadrilles with the fair daughters at the “Ship and 
Castle,” and toasted their bright eyes in excellent 
port and claret, the knowledge that it had not 
paid a penny of duty in nowise detracting from its 
flavor. Occasionally—when he had no other ap¬ 
pointment and the weather was passable—he 
mounted his stalwarts and made a spectacular drive 


204 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


—this as a sop to the collector. But he never came 
westwards; the going was too rough, and, besides, 
St. Just was but small potatoes compared with big 
mining districts to the east. 

For every cask landed at Monks Cove, King Nick 
and his merry men landed twenty either at Prussia 
Cove, Porthleven, Hayle or Portreath—sometimes 
at all four places simultaneously. Whenever Capt. 
Hambro’s troopers climbed into their saddles and 
took the road to Long Rock, a simple but effective 
system of signals flashed ahead of them so that they 
found very little. 

There was one nasty affair on Marazion Beach. 
Owing to a misunderstanding the cavalry came upon 
a swarm of tinners in process of making a landing. 
The tinners (who had broached a cask and were 
full of spirit in more senses than one) foolishly 
opened hostilities. The result was two troopers 
wounded, six miners killed—bearing out King Nick’s 
warning that the soldiers might easily be fooled, but 
they were by no means so easily frightened. The 
trade absorbed this lesson and there were no more 
regrettable incidents that season. 

Ortho was satisfied with his winter’s work beyond 
all expectations. It was a common tenet among 
Free Traders of those days that one cargo saved 
would pay for two lost, and Ortho, so far from 
losing a single cargo, had only lost five tubs in all 
—^three stove in transshipping and two when the 
mule carrying them fell into a pit. Everybody was 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


205 


satisfied. The district was flooded with cheap 
liquor. All the Covers in turn assisted in the boat- 
work and so picked up money in the off-season, when 
they needed it most. Pyramus, with his animals in 
constant employment, did so well that he delayed 
his northern trip for a month. 

The only person (with the exception of His 
Majesty’s Collector of Customs) who was not en¬ 
tirely pleased was Eli. In defrauding the Revenue 
he had no scruples whatever, but it interfered with 
his farming. This smuggling was all very fine and 
remunerative, but it was a mere side line. Bosnia 
was his lifework, his being. If he and Bohenna had 
to be up all night horse leading they could not be 
awake all day. The bracken was creeping in again. 
However, they were making money, heaps of it; 
there was no denying that. 

With the instinctive dislike of a seaman for a 
landsman, and vice versa, neither Jacky’s George 
nor Pyramus would trust each other. The amphibi¬ 
ous Ortho was the necessary link between them and, 
as such, paid out more or less what he thought fit 
—as has been the way with middlemen since the 
birthday of the world. He paid Jacky’s George 
one and six per cask for landing and Pyramus three 
shillings for packing (they went two to a horse), 
making a profit of ten shillings clear himself. Eli, 
the only person in the valley who could read, write 
or handle figures, kept the accounts and knew that 
at the end of March they were three hundred and 


206 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


forty pounds to the good. He asked Ortho where 
the money was. 

“Hid up the valley,” said his brother. “Put away 
where the devil himself wouldn’t find it.” 

“What are you hiding it like that for?” Eli 
asked. 

“Mother,” said Ortho. “That last rip-roar she 
had must have nigh baled her bank dry and now 
she’s looking for more. I think she’ve got a no¬ 
tion who bubbled her last year and she’s aiming to 
get a bit of her own back. She knows I’ve got 
money and she’s spying on me all the time. I’d 
tell you where it is only I’m afeard you’d let it out 
without meaning to. I’m too sly for her—^but you, 
you’re like a pane of glass.” 

Wholesale smuggling finished with the advent of 
spring. The shortening nights did not provide suffi¬ 
cient cover for big enterprises; dragoons and pre¬ 
ventive men had not the same objections to being 
out of their beds in'summer as in winter, and, more¬ 
over, the demand for liquor had fallen to a mini¬ 
mum. 

This was an immense relief to Eli, who now g^ve 
himself heart and soul to the farm, haling Bohenna 
with him; but two disastrous seasons had impaired 
Ortho’s vaunted enthusiasm for “the good old soil,” 
and he was- absent most of the week, working up 
connections for next winter’s cargo-running—so he 
told Eli—^but it was noticeable that his business ap¬ 
pointments usually coincided with any sporting 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


207 


events held in the Hundred, and at hurling matches, 
bull-baitings, cock-fights and pony-races he became 
almost as familiar a figure as his mother had been, 
backing his fancy freely and with not infallible 
judgment. However, he paid his debts scrupulously 
and with good grace, and, though he drank but little 
himself, was most generous in providing, gratis, re¬ 
freshment for others. He achieved strong local 
popularity, a priceless asset to a man who lives by 
flouting the law. 

The money was not aU misspent. 

He developed in other ways, began to be partic¬ 
ular about his person in imitation of the better-class 
squires, visited a Penzance tailor of fashion and 
was henceforth to be seen on public occasions in a 
wide-skirted suit of black broadcloth frogged with 
silver lace, high stockings to match and silver- 
buckled shoes, very handsome altogether. 

He had his mother’s blue-black hair, curling, bull¬ 
like, all over his head, sparkling eyes and strong 
white teeth. When he was fifteen she had put small 
gold rings in his ears—to improve his sight, so she 
said. At twenty he was six feet tall, slim and 
springy, moving among the boorish crowds like a 
rapier among bludgeons. His laugh was ready and 
he had a princely way with his money. Women 
turned their eyes his way, sighing—and he was not 
insensible. 

Rumors of his brother’s amorous affairs drifted 
home to Eli from time to time. He had cast off 


208 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the parish clerk’s daughter, Tamsin Eva, and was 
after a farmer’s young widow in St. Levan. Now 
he had quarreled with the widow and was to be 
seen in Trewellard courting a mine captain’s daugh¬ 
ter. Again he had put the miner’s daughter by, 
and St. Ives gossips were coupling his name with that 
of the wife of a local preacher and making a great 
hoity-toity about it—^and so on. It was impossible 
to keep track of Ortho’s activities in the game of 
hearts. 

He came home one morning limping from a slight 
gunshot wound in the thigh, and on another occa¬ 
sion brought his horse in nearly galloped to death, 
but he made no mention of how either of these 
things came about. Though his work on the farm 
was negligible, he spent a busy summer one way 
and another. 

Pyramus was down by the eighth of November, 
and on the night of the fourteenth the ball was 
opened with a heavy run of goods, all of which 
were safely delivered. From then on till Christmas 
cargo after cargo was slipped through without mis¬ 
hap, but on St. Stephen’s day the weather broke 
up, the wind bustled round to the southeast and 
blew great guns, sending the big seas piling into 
Monks Cove in foaming hills. The Cove men drew 
their boats well up, took down snares and antique 
blunderbusses and staggered inland rabbiting. 

Eli turned back to his farm-work with delight, 
but prosaic hard labor had no further attraction 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


209 

for Ortho. He put in a couple of days sawing up 
windfalls, a couple more ferreting with Bohenna, 
then he went up to Church-town and saw Tamsin 
Eva again. 

It was at a dance in the long room of the “Lamb 
and Flag” tavern and she was looking her best, 
dressed in blue flounced out at the hips, with a close- 
fitting bodice. She was what is known in West 
Cornwall as a “red Dane,” masses of bright auburn 
hair she had and a soft white skin. Ortho, whose 
last three little affairs had been pronounced bru¬ 
nettes, turned to her with a refreshened eye, won¬ 
dering what had made him leave her. She was 
dancing a square dance with her faithful swain, 
Tom Trevaskis, when Ortho entered, circling and 
curtseying happily to the music of four fiddles led 
by Jiggy Dan. 

The mine captain’s daughter glowed as rosy as 
a pippin, too rosy; the preacher’s spouse was an 
olive lady, almost swarthy. Tamsin Eva’s slender 
neck might have been carved from milk-ivory and 
she was tinted like a camellia. Ortho’s dark eyes 
glittered. But it was her hair that fascinated him 
most. The room was lit by dips lashed to decorated 
barrel hoops suspended from the rafters, and as 
Tamsin in her billowy blue dress swept and sidled 
under these the candlelight played tricks with her 
burnished copper head, flicked red and amber lights 
over and into it, crowned her with living gold. The 
black Penhale felt his heart leap; she was most 


210 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


lovely! Why on earth had he ever dropped her? 
Why? 

Deep down he knew; it was because, for all her 
physical attraction, she wearied him utterly, seemed 
numbed in his presence, had not a word to say. 
That Trewellard wench at least had a tongue in 
her head and the widow had spirit; he could still 
almost feel his cheek tingle where she had hit him. 
But that queenly crown of hair! He had an over¬ 
mastering desire to pull it down and bury his face 
in the shining golden torrent. He would too, ecod! 
Dull she might have been, but that was two years 
ago. She’d grown since then, and so had he, and 
learnt a thing or two; a score of women had been 
at pains to teach him. He hadn’t gone far with 
Tamsin previously—she’d been too damned soft— 
but he would now. He’d stir her up. Apparently 
shallow women were often deep as the sea, deep 
enough to drown one. He’d take the risk of drown¬ 
ing; he fed on risks. That the girl was formally 
betrothed to Trevaskis did not deter him in the 
slightest. There was no point in the game in which 
he could not out-maneuver the slovenly yokel. 

He waited till the heated boy went to get himself 
a drink, and then shouldered through the press and 
claimed Tamsin for the next dance, claiming her 
smilingly, inevitably, as though she was his private 
property and there had not been a moment’s break 
between them. The girl’s eyes went blank with 
dismay, she tried to decline. He didn’t seem to 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


211 


hear, but took her hand. She hung back weakly. 
There was no weakness in Ortho’s grip; he led her 
out in spite of herself. She couldn’t resist him, she 
never had been able to resist him. Fortunately for 
her he had never demanded much. Poor Tamsin! 
Two years had not matured her mentally. She had 
no mind to mature; she was merely a pretty chattel, 
the property of the strongest claimant. Ortho was 
stronger than Trevaskis, so he got her. 

When the boy returned she was dancing with 
the tall Free Trader; the golden head drooped, the 
life had gone out of her movements, but she was 
dancing with him. Trevaskis tried to get to her 
at every pause, but always Ortho’s back interposed. 
The farmer went outside and strode up and down 
the yard, glaring from time to time through the 
window; always Tamsin was dancing with Penhale. 
Trevaskis ground his teeth. Two years ago he had 
been jockeyed in the same way. Was this swart 
gypsy’s whelp, whose amorous philanderings were 
common talk, to have first call on his bright girl 
whenever he deigned to want her? Trevaskis swore 
he should not, but how to frustrate him he did not 
know. Plainly Tamsin was bewitched, was incapa¬ 
ble of resistance; she had admitted as much, weep¬ 
ing. Thrash Ortho to a standstill he could not; he 
was not a brave man and he dared not risk a maul 
with the smuggler. Had Penhale been a “for¬ 
eigner” he could have roused local feeling against 
him, but Penhale was no stranger; he was the squire 


212 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of Bosula and, moreover, most popular, far more 
popular than he was himself. He had a wild idea 
of trying a shot over a bank in the dark—and aban¬ 
doned it, shuddering. Supposing he missed! What 
would Penhale do to him? What wouldn’t he do 
to him? Trevaskis hadn’t courage enough even for 
that. He strode up and down, oblivious of the 
rain gusts, trying to discover a chink in the inter¬ 
loper’s armor. 

As for Ortho, he went on dancing with Tamsin, 
and when it was over took her home; he buried 
his face in that golden torrent. He was up at 
Church-town the very next night and the next night 
and every night till the gale blew out. 

Trevaskis, abandoning a hopeless struggle, fol¬ 
lowed in the footsteps of many unlucky lovers and 
drowned his woes in drink. It was at the Kiddly- 
wink in Monks Cove that he did his drowning and 
not at the “Lamb and Flag,” but as his farm lay 
about halfway between the two there was nothing 
remarkable in that. 

What did cause amusement among the Covers, 
however, was the extraordinary small amount of 
liquor it required to lay him under the bench and 
the volume of his snores when he was there. 


CHAPTER XVI 

I 

T he southeasterly gale blown out, Ortho’s 
business went forward with a rush. In the 
second week in January they landed a cargo 
a night to make up for lost time, and met with 
a minor accident—Jacky’s George breaking a leg 
in saving a gig from being stove. This handicapped 
them somewhat. Anson was a capable boatsman, 
but haphazard in organization, and Ortho found 
he had to oversee the landings as well as lead the 
pack-train. Despite his efforts there were hitches 
and bungles here and there; the cogs of the ma¬ 
chinery did not mate as smoothly as they had under 
the cock-sparrow. Nevertheless they got the car¬ 
goes through somehow and there was not much to 
fear in the way of outside interruptions; the dra¬ 
goons seemed to have settled to almost domestic 
felicity in Penzance and the revenue cutter had 
holed her garboard strake taking a short cut round 
the Manacles and was docked at Falmouth. Ortho 
got so confident that he actually brought his horses 
home in plain daylight. 

Then on the fourteenth of February, when all 
seemed so secure, the roof fell in. 

213 


214 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Mr. William Carmichael was the person who 
pulled the props away. Mr. William Carmichael, 
despite his name, was an Irishman, seventeen years 
of age, and, as a newly-joined cornet of dragoons, 
drawing eight shillings a day, occupied a position 
slightly less elevated than an earth-worm. How¬ 
ever, he was very far from this opinion. Mr. Car¬ 
michael, being young and innocent, yearned to let 
blood, and he wasn’t in the least particular whose. 
Captain Hambro and his two somewhat elderly 
lieutenants, on the other hand, were experienced 
warriors, and consequently the most pacific of crea¬ 
tures. Nothing but a direct order from a superior 
would induce them to draw the sword except to 
poke the fire. Mr. Carmichael’s martial spirit was 
in a constant state of effervescence; he hungered 
and thirsted for gore—but without avail. Hambro 
positively refused to let him run out and chop any¬ 
body. The captain was a kindly man; his cornet’s 
agitation distressed him and he persuaded one of 
the dimpled Miss Jagos to initiate his subordinate 
in the gentler game of love (the boy would come 
into some sort of Kerry baronetcy when his sire 
finally bowed down to delirium tremens, and it was 
worth her while). But Mr. Carmichael was built 
of sterner stuff. He was proof against her woman’s 
wiles. Line of attack! At ’em! The lieutenants, 
Messrs. Pilkington and Jope, were also gentle souls, 
Pilkington was a devotee of chess, Jope of sea¬ 
fishing. Both sought to engage the fire-eater in their 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 215 

particular pastimes. It was useless; he disdained 
such trivialities. Death! Glory I 

But Hambro, whose battle record was unimpeach¬ 
able, knew that in civil police work, such as he was 
supposed to be doing, there is precious little tran¬ 
sient glory to be picked up and much adhesive mud. 
He knew that with the whole population against 
him he stood small chance of laying the smugglers 
by the heels, and if he did the county families (who 
were as deeply implicated as any) would never rest 
until they had got him broken. He sat tight. 

This did not suit the martial Carmichael at all. 
He fumed and fretted, did sword exercise in the 
privacy of his bedroom till his arm ached, and then 
gushed his heart out in letters to his mother, which 
had the sole effect of eliciting bottles of soothing 
syrup by return, the poor lady thinking his blood 
must be out of order. 

But his time was to come. 

On the eighth of February Pilkington was called 
away to Axminster to the bedside of his mother 
(at least that is what he called her) and Carmichael 
was given his troop to annoy. On the morning of 
the fourteenth Hambro left on three days’ leave to 
shoot partridges at Tehidy, Jope and Carmichael 
only remaining. Jope blundered in at five o’clock 
on the same afternoon sneezing fit to split himself. 
He had been off Low Lee after pollack and all he 
had succeeded in catching was a cold. He growled 
about the weather, which his boatman said was 


216 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


working up for a blow, drank a pint of hot rum 
bumbo and sneezed himself up to bed, giving strict 
orders that he was not to be roused on any account. 

Carmichael was left all alone. 

To him, at seven of the clock, came Mr. Richard 
Curral, riding officer, a conscientious but blighted 
man. 

He asked for Hambro, Pilkington and Jope in 
turn, and groaned resignedly when he heard they 
were unavailable. 

“Anything I can do for you?” Carmichael in¬ 
quired. 

Curral considered, tapping his rabbit teeth with 
his whip handle. Mr. Carmichael was terribly 
young, the merest babe. 

“N-o. I don’t think so; thank you, sir. No, 
never mind. Pity they’re away, though . . . seems 
a chance,” he murmured, talking to himself. “Lot 
of stuff been run that way of late . . . ought to 
be stopped by rights . . . pity!” he sighed. 

“What’s a pity? What are you talking about?” 
said Mr. Carmichael, his ears pricking. “Take that 
whip out of your mouth 1” 

Mr. Curral withdrew the whip; he was used to 
being hectored by military officers. 

“Er—oh I . . . er, the Monks Cove men are go¬ 
ing to make a run to-night.” 

Mr. Carmichael sat upright. “Are they, b’ 
God! How d’you know?” 

“An informer has just come in. Gives no name, 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


217 


of course, but says he’s from Gwithian parish; looks 
like a farmer. Wants no reward.” 

“Then what’s his motive?” 

Mr. Curral shrugged his shoulders. “Some petty 
jealousy, I presume; it usually is among these peo¬ 
ple. I’ve known a man give his brother away be¬ 
cause he got bested over some crab-pots. This 
fellow says he overheard them making their plans 
in the inn there—lay under the table pretending to 
be drunk. Says that tall Penhale is the ringleader; 
I’ve suspected as much for some time. Of course 
it may only be a false scent after all, but the in¬ 
former seems genuine. What are you doing, sir?” 

Mr. Carmichael had danced across the room, 
opened the door and was howling for his servant. 
His chance had come. Gore! 

“Doing! . . . Why, going to turn a troop out 
and skewer the lot of ’em of course. What d’ you 
think?” shouted that gentleman, returning. “I’d 
turn out the squadron, only half the nags are stream¬ 
ing with strangles. Toss me that map there. Now 
where is this Monks Cove?” 

Mr. Curral’s eyes opened wide. He was not used 
to this keenness on the part of the military. One 
horse coughing slightly would have been sufficient 
excuse for Hambro to refuse to move—leave alone 
half a squadron sick with strangles. It promised 
to be a dirty night too. He had expected to meet 
with a diplomatic but nevertheless definite refusal. 
It was merely his three-cornered conscience that had 


218 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


driven him round to the billet at all—yet here was 
an officer so impatient to be off that he was attempt¬ 
ing the impossible feat of pulling on his boots and 
buckling on his sword at the same time. Curral’s 
eyes opened wider and wider. 

“Ahem!—er—do you mean . . . er . . . are 
you in earnest, sir?” 

“Earnest!” The cornet snorted, his face radiant. 
“Damn my blood but I am in very proper earnest, 
Mr. What’syourname—as these dastardly scoun¬ 
drels shall discover ere we’re many hours older. 
Earnest, b’gob!” 

“But Mr. Jope, sir . . . hadn’t you better con¬ 
sult Mr. Jope? . . . He . . 

“Mr. Jope be dam . . . Mr. Jope has given orders 
that he’s not to be disturbed on any account, on any 
account, sir. I am in command here at the moment, 
and if you will have the civility to show me where 
this plaguy* Monks Cove hides itself instead of 
standing there sucking your whip you will greatly 
assist me in forming my plan of action.” 

Curral bent over the map and pointed with his 
finger. 

“Here you are, sir, the merest gully.” 

“Then I shall charge down the gully,” said Car¬ 
michael with that quick grasp of a situation dis¬ 
played by all great commanders. The riding officer 
coughed: “Then you’ll have to charge at a walk, 
sir, and in single file; there’s only a rough pack-track. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


219 


Further, the track is picketed at the head; as soon 
as you pass a gun will be fired and when you reach 
the cove there won’t be a cat stirring.” 

Carmichael, like all great commanders, had his 
alternative. “Then I shall charge ’em from the 
flank. Can I get up speed down this slope?” 

Curral nodded. “Yes, sir. You can ride from 
top to bottom in a moment of time.” 

“How d’you mean?” 

“It is practically a precipice, sir.” 

“Humph!—and this flank?” 

“The same, sir.” 

Carmichael scratched his ear and for the first time 
took thought. “Lookee,” he said presently. “If I 
stop the pack track here and there are precipices 
on either side how can they get their horses out? 
I’ve got ’em bottled.” 

Curral shook his head. “I said practically preci¬ 
pices, sir. Precipices to go down, but not to come 
Mp, As you yourself have probably observed, sir, 
a horse can scramble up anything, but he is a fool 
going down. A horse falling uphill doesn’t fall far, 
but a horse falling down a slope like that rolls to 
the bottom. A horse . . .” 

“Man,” snapped the cornet, “don’t talk to me 
about horses. My father keeps twenty. I know.” 

Curral coughed. “I beg your pardon, sir. The 
informer tells me there are a dozen places on either 
side by which these fellows can get their beasts to 


220 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


the level. Remember it is their own valley; they’re 
at home there, while we are strangers and in the 
dark.” 

“I wish you could get out of this habit of 
propounding the obvious,” said Carmichael. He 
dabbed his finger down on the map. “Look—sup¬ 
posing we wait for them out here across their line 
of march?” 

“They’d scatter all over the moor, sir. We’d 
be lucky if we caught a couple on a thick night like 
this.” 

Carmichael plumped down on a chair and sav¬ 
agely rubbed his curls. 

“Well, Mr. Riding Officer, I presume that in the 
face of these insurmountable difficulties you propose 
to sit down and do nothing—as usual. Let these 
damned ruffians run their gin, flout the law, do ex¬ 
actly as they like. Now let me tell you I’m of a 
different kidney, I . . .” 

“You will pardon me, sir,” said Curral quietly, 
“but I haven’t as yet been given the opportunity 
of proposing anything.” 

“What’s your plan then?” 

“How many men can you mount, sir?” 

“Forty with luck. I’ll have to beat the taverns 
for ’em.” 

“Very good, sir. Send a small detachment to 
stop the head of the track; not to be there before 
ten o’clock. The rest, under yourself, with me for 
guide, will ride to the top of the cliff which over- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


221 


hangs the village from the east and there leave the 
horses. The informer tells me there is a sheep- 
track leading down from there and they picket the 
top of it—an old man with a gun to fire if he hears 
anything. That picket will have to be silenced.” 

“Who’s going to do that?” the cornet inquired. 

“I’ve got a man of my own I think can do it. 
He was a great poacher before he got religion.” 

“And then?” 

“Then we’ll creep, single file, down the sheep- 
track, muster behind the pilchard sheds and rush 
the landing—the goods should be ashore by then. 
I trust that meets with your approval, sir?” 

The cornet nodded, sobered. “It does—^you 
seem to be something of a tactician, Mr. . . . er 
. . . Curral.” 

“I served foreign with Lord Mark Kerr’s Regi¬ 
ment of Horse Guards, sir,” said the riding officer, 
picking up his whip. 

Carmichael’s jaw dropped. “Horse Guards! 
. . . Abroad! . . . One of us! Dash my guts, 
man, why didn’t you say so before?” 

“You didn’t ask me, sir,” said Curral and sucked 
his whip. 


2 

Uncle Billy Clemo sat behind a rock at the top 
of the sheep-path and wished to Heaven the signal 
would go up. A lantern run three times to the truck 


222 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of the flag-pole was the signal that the horses were 
away and the pickets could come in. Then he would 
be rewarded with two shillings and a drop of hot 
toddy at the Kiddlywink—and so to bed. 

He concentrated his thoughts on the hot toddy, 
imagined it tickling bewitchingly against his palate, 
wafting delicious fumes up his nostrils, gripping him 
by the throat, trickling, drop by drop, through his 
chilled system, warm and comforting, trickling down 
to his very toes. He would be happy then. He 
had been on duty since seven-thirty; it was now after 
ten and perishing cold. The wind had gone round 
suddenly to the northeast and was gaining violence 
every minute. Before dawn it would be blowing 
a full gale. Uncle Billy was profoundly thankful 
he was not a horse leader. While Penhale and Com¬ 
pany were buffeting their way over the moors he 
would be in bed, praise God, full of toddy. In the 
meanwhile it was bitter cold. He shifted his posi¬ 
tion somewhat so as to get more under the lee of 
the rock and peered downwards to see how they 
were getting on. He could not see much. The 
valley was a pit of darkness. A few points of light 
marked the position of the hamlet, window lights 
only. The fisher-folk knew their own place as rats 
know their holes and made no unnecessary show of 
lanterns. A stranger would have imagined the ham¬ 
let slept; in reality it was humming like a hive. 

A dim half-moon of foam marked the in-curve 
of the Cove; seaward was blank darkness again. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


223 


Uncle Billy, knowing what to look for and where 
to look, made out a slightly darker blur against the 
outer murk—the lugger riding to moorings, main 
and mizzen set. She was plunging a goodish bit, 
even down there under shelter of the cliffs. Uncle 
Billy reckoned the boat’s crews must be earning their 
money pulling in against wind and ebb, and once 
more gave thanks he was not as other men. 

The wind came whimpering over the high land, 
bending the gorse plumes before it, rattling the dead 
brambles, rustling the grass. Something stirred 
among the brambles, something living. He picked 
up his old Brown Bess. A whiff of scent crossed 
his nostrils, pungent, clinging. He put the Bess 
down again. Fox. He was bitter cold, especially 
as to the feet. He was a widower and his daughter- 
in-law kept him short in the matter of socks. He 
stood up—which was against orders:—and stamped 
the turf till he got some warmth back in his toes, 
sat down again and thought about the hot toddy. 
The lugger was still there, lunging at her moorings. 
They were a plaguy time landing a few kegs! 
Jacky’s George would have finished long before— 
these boys! Whew I it was cold up there 1 

The gale’s voice was rising to a steady scream; 
it broke against Uncle Billy’s rock as though it had 
been a wave. Shreds of dead bracken and grass 
whirled overhead. The outer darkness, which was 
the sea, showed momentary winks of gray—^break¬ 
ers. When the wind lulled for a second, a deep 


224 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


melancholy bay, like that of some huge beast growl¬ 
ing for meat, came rolling in from the southwest 
—^the surf on the Twelve Apostles. 

There were stirrings and snappings in the bram¬ 
bles. That plaguy fox again, thought Uncle Billy 
—or else rabbits. His fingers were numb now. He 
put the Bess down beside him, blew on his hands, 
thrust them well down in his pockets and snuggled 
back against the rock. The lugger would slip moor¬ 
ings soon whether she had unloaded or not, and 
then toddy, scalding his throat, trickling down to 
his . . . 

Something heavy dropped on him from the top 
of the rock, knocking him sideways, away from the 
gun, pinning him to the ground; hands, big and 
strong as brass, took him round the throat, drove 
cruel thumbs into his jugular, strangling him. 

“Got him, Joe,” said a voice. “Bring rope and 
gag quick!” - He got no hot toddy that night. 

3 

“That the lot?” the lugger captain bellowed. 

“Aye,” answered his mate. 

“Cast off that shore boat then and let go for¬ 
ward soon’s she’m clear.” 

“Aye, aye. Pull clear, you; look lively 1” 

The Gamecock^s crew jerked their oars into the 
pins and dragged the gig out of harm’s way. 

The moorings buoy splashed overboard, the lug- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 225 

ger, her mainsail backed, came round before the 
wind and was gone. 

“Give way,” said Anson; “the wind’s getting up 
a fright.” He turned to Ortho. “You’ll have a 
trip to-night . . . rather you nor me.” 

Ortho spat clear of the gunwale. “Have to go, 
I reckon; the stuff’s wanted, blast it! Has that 
boat ahead unloaded yet?” 

“She haven’t signaled,” the bowman answered. 

“No matter, pull in,” said Anson. “We haven’t 
no more than the leavings here; we can land this 
li’l’ lot ourselves. Give way, all.” 

Four blades bit the water with a will, but the 
rowers had to bend their backs to wrench the gig in 
against the wind and tide. It was a quarter of an 
hour before they grounded her nose on the base of 
the slip. 

“Drag her up a bit, boys,” said Anson. “Hell 1 
—what’s that?” 

From among the dark huddle of houses came a 
woman’s scream, two—three—and then pande¬ 
monium, shouts, oaths, crashes, horses stamping, the 
noise of people rushing and struggling, and, above 
all, a boy’s voice hysterically shouting, “Fire! 
Curse you! Fire 1” 

“Christ!” said Ortho. “The Riders! Hey, push 
her off! For God’s sake, push!” 

The two bowmen, standing in the water, put their 
backs to the boat and hove; Ortho and Anson in 
the stern used their oars pole-wise. 


226 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“All together, he-ave!” 

Slowly the gig began to make stern-way. 

“Heave!” 

The gig made another foot. Feet clattered on 
the slip-head and a^voice cried, “Here’s a boat es¬ 
caping! Halt or I fire!” 

“Hea-ve!” Ortho yelled. The gig made another 
foot and was afloat. There was a spurt of fire 
from the slip and a bullet went droning overhead. 
The bowman turned and dodged for safety among 
the rocks. 

“Back water, back!” Anson exhorted. 

There were more shouts from the shore, the boy’s 
voice crowing shrill as a cockerel, a quick succession 
of flashes and more bullets went wailing by. The 
pair in the boat dragged at their oars, teeth locked, 
terrified. 

Wind and tide swept them up, darkness engulfed 
them. In a couple of minutes the shots ceased and 
they knew they were invisible. ’They lay on their 
oars, panting. 

“What now?” said Ortho. “Go after the*lugger? 
We cafi’t go back.” 

‘‘Lugger’s- miles away, going like a stag,” said 
Anson. “Best chance it across the bay to Porth- 
leven.” 

“Porthleven ?” 

“Where else? Wind’s dead nor’east. Lucky if 
we make that. Throw this stuff out; she’s riding 
deep as a log.” 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


227 


They lightened the gig of its entire load and 
stepped the mast. Anson was at the halliards hoist¬ 
ing the close-reefed mainsail. Ortho kept at the 
tiller until there was a spit of riven air across his 
cheek and down came the sail on the run. 

He called out, “What’s the matter?” 

There was no answer for a minute, and then An¬ 
son said calmly from under the sail, “Shot, I 
b’lieve.” 

“What is—^halliards?” 

“Me, b’lieve.” 

“You! Shot! What d’you mean? Where?” 

“In- chest. Stray shot, I reckon; they can’t hit 
nawthing when they aim. Thee’ll have to take her 
thyself now. . . . 0-ooh. . . .” He made a sud¬ 
den, surprised exclamation as if the pain had only 
just dawned on him and began to cough. 

“Hoist sail . . . thou . . . fool. . . A-ah!” 

Ortho sprang forward and hoisted the sail; the 
gig leapt seawards. The coughing began again 
mingled with groans. They stabbed Ortho to the 
heart. Instead of running away they should be 
putting back; it was a doctor they wanted. He 
would put back at once and get Anson attended to. 
That he himself would be arrested as the ring¬ 
leader, tried and either hung or transported did not 
occur to him. Half his happy boyhood had been 
spent with Anson; the one thing was to ease his 
agony. 


228 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Going to put back,” he yelled to the prostrate 
man under the bow thwart. “Put back I” 

“You can’t,” came the reply . . . and more 
coughing. 

Of course he couldn’t. If he had thought for 
a moment he would have known it. Wind and tide 
would not let him put back. There was nothing 
for it but the twelve-mile thrash across the open 
bay to Porthleven; he prayed there might be a doc¬ 
tor there. 

He luffed, sheeted home, rounded the great mass 
of Black Cam, braced as sharp as he dared and met 
a thunder clap of wind and sea. It might have 
been waiting for him round the corner, so surely 
did it pounce. It launched itself at him roaring, 
a ridge of crumbling white high overhead, a hill of 
water toppling over. 

The loom and bellow of it stunned his senses, 
but habit i« a strong master. His mind went blank, 
but his hand acted, automatically jamming the helm 
hard over. The gig had good way on; she spun 
as a horse spins on its hocks and met the monster 
just in time. Stood on her stern; rose, seesawed 
on the crest, three quarters of her keel bare, white 
tatters flying over her; walloped down into the 
trough as though on a direct dive to the bottom, 
recovered and rose to meet the next. The wild soar 
of the bows sent Anson slithering aft. Ortho heard 
him coughing under the stroke thwart. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


229 


“She’ll never do it,” he managed to articulate. 
“Veer an’ let ... let .. . her drive.” 

“Where for?” Ortho shouted. “Where for? 
D’you hear me?” 

“Scilly,” came the answer, broken by dreadful 
liquid chokings. 

The waves broke with less violence for a minute 
or two and Ortho managed to get the Gamecock 
away before the wind, though she took a couple of 
heavy dollops going about. 

Scilly! A handful of rocks thirty miles away 
in the open Atlantic, pitch dark, no stars, no com¬ 
pass, the Runnelstone to pass, then the Wolf! At 
the pace they were going they would be on the 
Islands long before dawn and then it would be a 
case of exactly hitting either Crow Sound or St. 
Mary’s Sound or being smashed to splinters. Still 
it was the only chance. He would hug the coast as 
near as he dared till past the Runnelstone—if he 
ever passed the Runnelstone—and then steer by the 
wind; it was all there was to steer by. 

It was dead northeast at present, but if it shifted 
where would he be then? It did not bear thinking 
on and he put it from his mind. He must get past 
the Runnelstone first; after that . . . 

He screwed up every nerve as tight as it would 
go, forced his senses to their acutest, set his teeth— 
swore to drive the boat to Scilly—but he had no 
hope of getting there, no hope at all. 


230 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


The Gamecock, under her rag of canvas, ran like 
a hunted thing. It was as though all the crazy ele¬ 
ments were pouring southwest, out to the open sea, 
and she went with them, a chip swept headlong in 
a torrent of clamorous wind and waters. On his 
right Ortho could just discern the loom of the coast. 
Breaker-tops broke, hissing, astern, abeam, ahead. 
Spindrift blew in flat clouds, stinging like hail. 
Flurries of snow fell from time to time. 

He was wet through, had lost all feeling in his 
feet, while his hands on the sheet and tiller were 
so numbed he doubted if he could loosen them. 

On and on they drove into the blind turmoil. 
Anson lay in the water at the bottom, groaning and 
choking at every pitch. 


CHAPTER XVII 

T he Monks Cove raid was not an unmIxed 
success. The bag was very slight and the 
ringleader got clear away. Mr. Car¬ 
michael’s impetuosity was responsible for this. The 
riding officer was annoyed with him; he wished he 
would go home to Ireland and get drowned in a 
bog. Had any other officer been in charge of the 
soldiers they would have made a fine coup; at the 
same time, he reflected that had any one else com¬ 
manded, the soldiers would not have been there at 
all. There were two sides to it. He consoled him¬ 
self with the thought that, although the material 
results were small, the morale of the Monks Cove 
Free Traders had suffered a severe jolt; at any rate, 
he hoped so. At the outset things had promised 
well. It was true that the cornet had only mustered 
thirty-one sabers instead of forty (and two of these 
managed to drop out between Penzance and Paul), 
but they had reached the cliff-top not more than 
fifty minutes behind schedule, to find the picket 
trussed up like a boiled chicken and all clear. 

Carmichael led the way down the sheep-path; he 
insisted on it. “An officer’s place is at the head 
of his men,” he chanted. The sentiment is laud¬ 
able, but he led altogether too fast. Seventeen and 
231 


232 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


carrying nothing but his sword, he gamboled down 
the craggy path with the agility of a chamois. His 
troopers, mainly elderly heroes, full of beer (they 
had been dragged blaspheming out of taverns just 
as they were settling down to a comfortable eve¬ 
ning) and burdened with accoutrements, followed 
with all the caution due to their years and condi¬ 
tion. The result was that Carmichael arrived at the 
base alone. 

He crouched behind the corner of the pilchard 
shed and listened. The place was alive. It was 
inky dark; he could see nothing, but he could hear 
well enough. 

“He-ave, ak Up she goes! Stan’ still, my 
beauty! Fast on that side, Jan? Lead on, you!” 

“Bessie Kate, Bessie Kate, bring a hank o’ rope; 
this pack’s slippin’.” 

“Whoa, mare, blast ’e! Come along wid that 
there loL^Zacky; want to be here all night, do ’e?” 

“Next horse. Pass the word for more horses 
. . . ahoy there . . . horses.” 

Grunts of men struggling with heavy objects, sub¬ 
dued exhortations, complaints, oaths, laughter, 
women’s chatter, hoof beats, the shrill ki-yi of a 
trampled dog. The darkness ahead was boiling with 
invisible people, smugglers all and engaged on their 
unlawful occupations. 

Carmichael’s hackles stood on end. He gripped 
his sword. 

“Is that all?” a voice called, louder, more authori- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


233 


tative than the rest. “Get them horses away then.” 

The voice was referring to the boat-load, but the 
cornet thought the whole run was through. In a 
minute the last horse would be off and he would 
lose the capture. Without looking to see how many 
of his men had collected behind him he shouted 
“Huzza!” and plunged into the thick of it. Death 1 
Glory! 

He plunged head-first into Uncle Billy Clemo’s 
daughter-in-law, butting her over backwards. She 
clutched out to save herself, clutched him round the 
neck and took him with her. She lay on the ground, 
still grasping the cornet to her, and screamed her 
loudest. Mr. Carmichael struggled frantically; 
here was a pretty situation for a great military 
genius at the onset of his first battle! The woman 
had the hug of a she-bear, but his fury gave him 
the strength of ten. He broke her grip and plunged 
on, yelling to his men to fire. The only two who 
were present obeyed, but as he had neglected to tell 
them what to fire at they very prudently fired into 
the air. 

The cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, 
shouted to the somebody to stop or be hewn limb 
from limb. The somebody fled pursued by Car¬ 
michael, turned at bay opposite a lighted window 
and he saw it was a woman. Another woman! 
Death and damnation! Were there nothing but 
damnation women in this damnation maze? 

He spun about and galloped back, crashed into 


234 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


something solid— a. man at last!^—^launched out at 
him. His sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping 
counter, and flipped out of his hand. 

“S’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. 
“Stand or I’ll carve your heart out, you . . . Oh, 
begging your pardon, sir. I’m* sure:” 

Carmichael cursed’him, picked up his sword again 
and rushed on. By the sound of their feet and 
breathing he knew there were people, scores of 
them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the 
blank darkness, but though he challenged and 
clutched and smote with the flat of his sword* he 
met with nothing—nothing but thin air. It was 
like playing blindman’s buff with ghosts. He heard 
two or three ragged volleys in the direction of the 
sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de- 
sac between two cottages, nearly splitting his head 
against a wall. He was three minutes fumbling his 
way out of that, blubbering with rage, but this time 
he came out on the sea-front. 

Gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where 
his men were (firing at a boat or something), and 
he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a spar 
and fell headlong over the cliff. It was only a minia¬ 
ture cliff, a bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet 
high, with‘mixed sand and bowlders beneath. 

The cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay 
there for some minutes thinking he was dead and 
wondering what style of monument (if any) his 
parents would erect to his memory:— 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


235 


jacet William Shine Carmichael, cor- 
net of His Majesty^s Dragoons, killed while 
gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. Mill- 
tavi non sine gloria. Aged ijJ* 

Aged only seventeen; how sad! He shed a tear 
to think how young he was when he died and then 
slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t 
quite dead—only stunned^—only half-stunned— 
hardly stunned at all. 

A stray shot went wailing eerily out to sea. His 
men were in action; he must go to them. He tried 
to get up, but found his left leg was jammed between 
two bowlders, and, tug as he might, he could not 
dislodge it. He shouted for help. Nobody took 
any notice. Again and again he shouted. No re¬ 
sponse. He laid his curly head down on the wet 
sand and v/ith his tears wetted it still further. 
When at length (a couple of hours later) he was 
liberated it was by two of the smuggler ladies. 
They were most sympathetic, bandaged his sprained 
ankle, gave him a hot drink to revive his circulation 
and vowed it was a shame to send pretty boys of 
his age out so late. 

Poor Mr. Carmichael! 

Eli and Bohenna were the first to load, and con¬ 
sequently led'the pack-train which was strung out 
for a quarter of a mile up the valley waiting for 
Ortho. When they heard the shots go off in the 
Cove they remembered King Nick’s standing orders 


236 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


and scattered helter-skelter up the western slope. 
There were only three side-tracks and thirty-two 
horses to be got up. This caused jamming and 
delay. 

The sergeant at the track-head heard the volleys 
as well, and, not having the least regard for Mr. 
Carmichael’s commandments, pushed on to see the 
fun. Fortunately for the leaders the chaotic state 
of the track prevented him from pushing fast. As 
it was he very nearly blundered into the tail end of 
the train. A mule had jibbed and stuck in the 
bushes, refusing to move either way. Eli and two 
young Hernes tugged, pushed and whacked at it. 
Suddenly, close beside, they heard the wild slither 
of iron on stone, a splash and the voice of a man 
calling on Heaven to condemn various portions of 
his anatomy. It was the sergeant; his horse had 
slipped up,, depositing him in a puddle. He re¬ 
mounted and floundered on with his squad, little 
knowing that m the bushes that actually brushed 
his knee was standing a loaded mule with thr^e tense 
boys clinging to its ears, nose and tail to keep it 
quiet. It was a close call. 

Eli took charge of the pack train. He was terri¬ 
bly anxious about Ortho, but hanging about and let¬ 
ting the train be taken would only make bad worse, 
and Ortho had an uncanny knack of slipping out 
of trouble. He felt sure that if anybody was ar¬ 
rested it would not be his brother. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


237 


King Nick had thought of everything. In case 
of a raid by mounted men who could pursue it would 
be folly to go on to St. Just. They were to hide 
their goods at some preordained spot, hasten home 
and lie doggo. 

The preordained spot was the “Fou-gou,” an 
ancient British dwelling hidden in a tangle of 
bracken a mile to the northwest, a subterranean 
passage roofed with massive slabs of granite, lined 
with moss and dripping with damp, the haunt of 
badgers, foxes and bats. By midnight Eli had his 
cargo stowed away in that dark receptacle thought¬ 
fully provided by the rude architects of the Stone 
Age, and by one o’clock he was at home in bed 
prepared to prove he had never left it. But he 
did not sleep, tired as he was. Two horses had 
not materialized, and where was Ortho? If he had 
escaped he should have been home by now . . . 
long ago. The gale made a terrific noise, moaning 
and buffeting round the house; it must be awful at 
sea. 

Where was Ortho? 

Eli might just as well have taken his goods 
through to St. Just for all the Dragoons cared. 
Had the French landed that night they would have 
made no protest. They would have drunk their 
very good healths. 

When the sergeant and his detachment, the snow 
at their backs, finally stumbled into Monks Cove 


238 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


it was very far from a scene of battle and carnage 
that met their gaze. “Homely’^ would better de¬ 
scribe it. The cottages were lit up and in them 
lounged the troopers, attended by the genial fisher- 
folk in artistic deshabille, in the clothes in which 
they, at that moment, had arisen from bed (so they 
declared). The warriors toasted their spurs at 
the hearths and drank to everybody’s everlasting 
prosperity. 

The sergeant made inquiries. What luck? 

None to speak of. Four fifths of the train was 
up the valley when they broke in, and got away 
easily. That little whelp Carmichael had queered 
the show, charging and yapping. Where was he 
now? Oh, lying bleating under the cliff somewhere. 
Pshaw 1 Let him lie a bit and learn wisdom, plaguy 
little louse I Have a drink, God bless us. 

They caught nothing then? 

Why, yes, certainly they had. Four prisoners 
and two horses. Two of the prisoners had since 
escaped, but no matter, the horses hadn’t, and they 
carried the right old stuff—gin and brandy. That 
was what they were drinking now. Mixed, it was 
a lotion fit to purge the gullet of the Great Mogul. 
Have a drink. Lord love you! 

The sergeant was agreeable. 

It was not before dawn that these stalwarts would 
consent to be mustered. They clattered back to 
Penzance in high fettle, joking and singing. Some 
of the younger heads (recruits only) were beginning 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 239 

to ache, but the general verdict was that it had been 
a very pleasant outing. 

Mr. Carmichael rode at their head. His fettle 
was not high. His ankle was most painful and so 
were his thoughts. Fancy being rescued by a pair 
of damnation girls I Moreover, two or three horses 
were going lame; what would Jope say to him when 
he returned—and Hambro? Brrh! Soldiering 
wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

Mr. Curral rode at the tail of the column. He 
too was a dejected man. That silly little fool of 
a Carmichael had bungled the haul of the year, but 
he didn’t expect the Collector would believe it; he 
was sure to get the blame. He and his poacher had 
captured two horses to have them taken from them 
by the troopers, the tubs broached and the horses 
let go. Dragoons!—they had known what discipline 
was in the Horse Guards! It was too late to go 
to Bosnia or the gypsy camp now; all tracks would 
have been covered up, no evidence. The prisoners 
had by this time dwindled to a solitary youth whom 
Curral suspected of being a half-wit and who would 
most assuredly be acquitted by a Cornish jury. He 
sighed and sucked the head of his whip. It was 
a hard life. 

Phineas Eva, parish clerk of St. Gwithian, came 
to call on Teresa one afternoon shortly after the 
catastrophe. He was dressed in his best, which 


240 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


was not very good, but signified that it was a visit 
of importance. 

He twittered some platitudes about the weather, 
local and foreign affairs—^the American colonists 
were on the point of armed rebellion, he was cred¬ 
itably informed—tut, tut! But meeting with no 
encouragement from his hostess he dwindled into 
silence and sat perched on the edge of the settle, 
blinking his pale eyes and twitching his hat in his 
rheumatic claws. Teresa seemed unaware of his 
presence. She crouched motionless in her chair, chin 
propped on knuckles, a somber, brooding figure. 

Phineas noted that her cheeks and eyelids were 
swollen, her raven hair hanging in untidy coils, and 
feared she had been roistering again. If so she 
would be in an evil mood. She was a big, strong 
woman, he a small, weak man. He trembled for 
his skin.' Still he must out with it somehow, come 
what might. There was his wife to face at the 
other end, and he was no less terrified of his wife. 
He must out with it. Of the two it is better to 
propitiate the devil you live with than the devil 
you don’t. He hummed and hawed, squirmed on 
his perch, and then with a gulp and a splutter came 
out with it. 

His daughter Tamsin was in trouble, and Ortho 
was the cause. He had to repeat himself twice 
before Teresa would take any notice, and then all 
she did was to nod her head. 

Phineas took courage; she had neither sworn 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


241 


nor pounced at him. He spoke his piece. Of 
course Ortho would do the right thing by Tamsin; 
she was a good girl, a very good girl, docile and 
domestic, would make him an excellent wife. Ortho 
was under a cloud at present, but that would blow 
over—King Nick had powerful influence and stood 
by his own. Parson Coverdale of St. Just was always 
friendly to the Free Traders; he would marry them 
without question. He understood Ortho was in hid¬ 
ing among the St. Just tinners; it would be most 
convenient. He . . . Teresa shook her head 
slowly. 

Not at St. Just? Then he had been blown over 
to Scilly after all. Oh, well, as soon as he could 
get back Parson Coverdale would . . . Again 
Teresa shook her head. 

Not at Scilly I Then where was he? Up coun¬ 
try? 

Teresa rose out of her chair and looked Phineas 
full in the face, stood over him, hair hanging loose, 
puffy, obese yet withal majestic, tragic beyond 
words. Something in her swollen eyes made him 
quail, but not for his own skin, not for himself. 

“A Fowey Newfoundlander put into Newlyn 
Pool ’s morning,” she said, and her voice had a 
husky burr. “Ten leagues sou’west of the Bishop 
they found the Gamecock of Monks Cove—bottom 
up.” 

Phineas gripped the edge of the settle and sagged 
forward. “Then ... I” 


242 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

“Yes,” said Teresa. “Drowned. Go home and 
tell that to your daughter. An’ tell her she’ve got 
next to her heart the only li’l’ livin’ spark of my 
lovely boy that’s left in this world. She’m luckier 
nor 1.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


B ut Ortho was not drowned. Dawn found 
the Gamecock still afloat, still scudding like a 
mad thing in the run of the seas. There was 
no definite dawn, no visible up-rising of the sun; 
black night slowly changed into leaden day, that 
was all. 

Ortho looked around him. There was nothing 
to be seen ‘but a toss of waters, breakers rushing 
foam-lipped before, beside him, roaring in his wake. 
The boat -might have been a hind racing among a 
pack of wild hounds intent on overwhelming her 
and dragging her under. There was nothing in 
sight. He had missed the Scillies altogether, as he 
had long suspected. 

After passing the Runnelstone he had kept his 
eyes skinned for the coal-fire beacon on St. Agnes 
(the sole light on the Islands), but not a flicker of 
it had he seen. He must have passed the wrong 
side of the Wolf and have missed the mark by miles 
and miles. As far as he could get his direction by 
dawn, the wind had gone back and he was running 
due south now. South—whither? He did not 
know and cared little. 

’Anson was dead, sitting up, wedged in the angle 
of the bows. He had died about an hour before 
243 


244 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


dawn, Ortho thought, after a dreadful paroxysm 
of choking. Ortho had cried out to him, but got 
no answer beyond a long-drawn sigh, a sigh of re¬ 
lief, the sigh of a man whose troubles are over. 
Anson was dead, leaving a widow and three young 
children. His old friend was dead, had died in 
agony, shot through the lungs, and left to choke 
his life out in an open boat in mid-winter. Hatred 
surged through Ortho, hatred for the Preventive. 
If he ever got ashore again he’d search out the 
man that fired that shot and serve him likewise, 
and while he was choking he’d sit beside him and, 
tell him about Anson in the open boat. As a mat¬ 
ter of fact, the man who fired the shot was a recruit 
who let off his piece through sheer nerves and con¬ 
gratulated himself on having hit nobody—^but Ortho 
did not know that. 

All they had been trying to do was to make a 
little money—and then to come shooting and mur¬ 
dering people . . . ! Smuggling was against the 
law, granted—but there should have been some sort 
of warning. For two winters they had been running 
cargoes and not a soul seemed to care a fig; then, 
all of a sudden, crash! The crash had come so 
suddenly that Ortho wondered for a fuddled mo¬ 
ment if it had come, if this were not some ghastly 
nightmare and presently he would wake up and 
find himself in bed at Bosnia and all well. A cold 
dollop of spray hit him in the middle of the back, 
drenching him, and there was Anson sitting up in 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


245 


the bows, the whole front of his smock deluged in 
blood; blood mingled with sea water washed about 
on the bottom of the boat. It was no dream. He 
didn’t care where he was going or what happened. 
He was soaked to the skin, famished, numb, body 
and soul, and utterly without hope—but mechani¬ 
cally he kept the boat scudding. 

The clouds were down very low and heavy bellied. 
One or two snow squalls swept over. Towards noon 
a few pale shafts of sunshine penetrated the cloud- 
wrack, casting patches of silver on the dreary 
waters. They brought no warmth, but the very 
sight of them put a little heart into the castaway. 
He fumbled in the locker under his seat and found 
a few scraps of stinking fish, intended for bait. 
These he ate, bones and all, and afterwards baled 
the boat out, hauled his sheet a trifle and put his 
helm to starboard with a hazy idea of hitting off 
the French coast somewhere about Brest, but the 
gig promptly shipped a sea, so he had to let her 
away and bale again. 

Anson was getting on his nerves. The dead 
man’s jaw lolled in an idiotic grin and his eyes were 
turned up so that they were fixed directly on Ortho. 
Every time he looked up there were the eyes on 
him. It was more than he could stand. He left 
the tiller with the intention of turning Anson over 
on his face, but the gig showed a tendency to jibe 
and he had to spring back again. When he looked 
up the grin seemed more pronounced than ever. 


246 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Grizzling because you’re out of It and I ain’t, 
eh?” he shouted, and was immediately ashamed of 
himself. He tried not to look at Anson, but there 
was a horrid magnetism about those eyes. 

“I shall go light-headed soon,” he said to him¬ 
self, and rummaged afresh in the locker, found a 
couple of decayed sand-eels and ate them. 

The afternoon wore on. It would be sunset soon 
and then night again. He wondered where next 
morning would see him, if it would see him at all. 
He thought not. 

“Can’t go on forever,” he muttered; “must sleep 
soon—then I’ll be drowned or froze.” He didn’t 
care. His sodden clothes would take him straight 
down and he was too tired to fight. It would be 
all over in a minute, finished and done with. At 
home, at the Owls’ House now, Wany would be 
bringing the cows in. Bohenna would be coming 
down the hill from work, driving the plow oxen 
before him. There would be a grand fire on the 
hearth and the black pot bubbling. He could see 
Martha fussing about like an old hen, getting supper 
ready, bent double with rheumatism—and Eli, 
Eli . . . He wondered if the owls would hoot 
for him as they had for his father. 

He didn’t know why he’d kept the boat going; 
It was only prolonging the misery. Might as well 
let her broach and have done with it. Over with 
her—now! But his hand remained steadfast and 
the boat raced on. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


247 


The west was barred with a yellow strip—sunset. 
Presently it would be night, and under cover of 
night Fate was waiting for him crouched like a 
footpad. 

He did not see the vessel’s approach till she was 
upon him. She must have been in sight for some 
time, but he had been keeping his eyes ahead and 
did not look round till she hailed. 

She was right on him, coming up hand over fist. 
Ortho was so surprised he nearly jumped out of 
his clothes. He stood up in the stern sheets, gog¬ 
gling at her foolishly. Was it a mirage? Had he 
gone light-headed already? He heard the creak 
of her yards and blocks as she yawed to starboard, 
the hiss of her cut-water shearing into a sea, and 
then a guttural voice shouting unintelligibly. She 
was real enough and she was yawing to pick him 
up! A flood of joy went through him; he was 
going to live after all! Not for nothing had he 
kept the Gamecock running. She was on top of 
him. The short bowsprit and gilded beak stabbed 
past; then came shouts, the roar of sundered water, 
a rope hurtling out of reach; a thump and over 
went the Gamecock, run down. Ortho gripped the 
gunnel, vaulted onto the boat side as it rolled under, 
and jumped. 

The vessel was wallowing deep in a trough at 
the time. He caught the fore-mast chains with both 
hands and hung trailing up to the knees in bubbling 


248 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


brine. Something bumped his knee. It was Anson; 
his leer seemed more pronounced than ever; then 
he went out of sight. Men in the channels gripped 
Ortho’s wrists and hoisted him clear. He lay where 
they threw him, panting and shivering, water drib¬ 
bling from his clothes to the deck. 

Aft on the poop a couple of men, officers evi¬ 
dently, were staring at the Gamecock drifting astern, 
bottom up. They did not consider her worth the 
trouble of going after. A negro gave Ortho a kick 
with his bare foot, handed him a bowl of hot gruel 
and a crust of bread. Ortho gulped these and then 
dragged himself to his feet, leaned against the main- 
jeers and took stock of his surroundings. 

It was quite a small vessel, rigged in a bastard 
fashion he had never seen before, square on the main 
mast, exaggerated lugs on the fore and mizzen. 
She had low sharp entry, but was built up aft with 
quarter-deck and poop; she was armed like a frigate 
and swarming with men. 

Ortho could not think where she housed them all 
-—and such men, brown, yellow, white and black, 
with and without beards. Some wore pointed red 
caps, some wisps of dirty linen wound about their 
scalps, and others were bare-headed and shorn to 
the skin but for a lock of oily hair. They wore 
loose garments of many colors, chocolate, saffron, 
salmon and blue, but the majority were of a soiled 
white. They drew these close about their lean 
bodies and squatted, bare toes protruding, under the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


249 


break of the quarter-deck, in the lee of scuttle butts, 
boats, masts—anywhere out of the wind. They 
paid no attention to him whatever, but chatted and 
spat and laughed, their teeth gleaming white in their 
dark faces, for all the world like a tribe of squatting 
baboons. One of them produced a crude two¬ 
stringed guitar and sang a melancholy dirge to the 
accompaniment of creaking blocks and hissing bow- 
wave. The sunset was but a chink of yellow light 
between leaden cloud and leaden sea. 

There was a flash away in the dusk to port fol¬ 
lowed by the slam of a gun. 

A gigantic old man came to the quarter-deck rail 
and bellowed across the decks. Ortho thought he 
looked like the pictures of Biblical patriarchs— 
Moses, for instance—with his long white beard and 
mantle blowing in the wind. 

At his first roar every black and brown ape on 
deck pulled his hood up and went down on his 
forehead, jabbering incoherently. They seemed to 
be making some sort of prayer towards the east. 
The old man’s declamation finished off in a long- 
drawn wail; he returned whence he had come, and 
the apes sat up again. The guitar player picked 
up his instrument and sang on. 

A boy, twirling a flaming piece of tow, ran up 
the ladders and lit the two poop lanterns. 

Away to port other points of light twinkled, ap¬ 
pearing and disappearing. 

The negro who had given him the broth touched 


250 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


him on the shoulder, signed to him to follow, and 
led the way below. It was dark on the main deck— 
all the light there was came from a single lantern 
swinging from a beam—but Ortho could see that it 
was also packed with men. They lay on mats be¬ 
side the hatch coamings, between the lashed carriage- 
guns, everywhere; it was difficult to walk without 
treading on them. Some of them appeared to be 
wounded. 

The negro unhooked the lantern, let fall a rope 
ladder into the hold and pushed Ortho towards 
it. He descended a few feet and found himself 
standing on the cargo, bales of mixed merchandise 
apparently. In the darkness around him he could 
hear voices conversing, calling out. The negro 
dropped after him and he saw that the hold was 
full of people—Europeans from what he could see 
—lying on top of the cargo. They shouted to him, 
but he was too dazed to answer. His guide pro¬ 
pelled him towards the after bulkhead and suddenly 
tripped him. He fell on his back on a bale and 
lay still while the negro shackled his feet together, 
picked up the lantern and was gone. 

“Englishman?” said a voice beside him. 

“Aye.” 

“Where did you drop from?” 

“Picked up—I was blown off-shore.” 

“Alone?” 

“Yes, all but my mate, and he’s dead. What craft 
is this?” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


251 


‘‘The Ghezala, xebec of Sallee.” 

“Where are we bound for?” 

“Sallee, on the coasts of Barbary, of course; to 
be sold as a slave among the heathen infidels. 
Where did you think you was bound for? Fortu¬ 
nate Isles with rings on your fingers to splice a 
golden queen—eh?” 

“Barbary—infidels—slave,” Ortho repeated stu¬ 
pidly. No wonder Anson had leered as he went 
down! 

He turned, sighing, over on his face. “Slaves— 
infidels—Barb . . .” and was asleep. 


CHAPTER XIX 


H e woke up eighteen hours later, at about 
noon—or so his neighbor told him; it was 
impossible to distinguish night from day 
down there. The hold was shallow and three parts 
full; this brought them within a few feet of the 
deck beams and made the atmosphere so thick it 
was difficult to breathe, congested as they were. 
Added to which, the rats and cockroaches were very 
active and the stale bilge water, washing to and fro 
under the floor, reeked abominably. 

The other prisoners were not talkative. Now 
and again one would shout across to a friend and 
a short conversation would ensue, but most of the 
time they kept silence, as though steeped in mel¬ 
ancholy. The majority sounded like foreigners. 

Ortho sat up, tried to stretch his legs, and found 
they were shackled to a chain running fore and aft 
over the cargo. 

His left-hand neighbor spoke: ‘‘Woke up, have 
you? Well, how d’you fancy it?” 

Ortho grunted. 

“Oh, well, mayn’t be so bad. You’m a likely 
lad; you’ll fetch a good price, mayhap, and get a 
good master. ’Tain’t the strong mule catches the 
whip; ’tis the old uns—^y’understan’? To-morrow’s 
252 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


253 


the best day for hard work over there and the 
climate’s prime; better nor England by a long hawse, 
and that’s the Gospel truth, y’understan’?” 

“How do you know?” Ortho inquired. 

The man snorted. “Know? Ain’t I been there 
nine year?” 

“In Sallee?” 

“No—^Algiers . . . but it’s the same, see what 
I mean? Nine years a slave with old Abd-el-Hamri 
in Sidi-Okbar Street. Only exchanged last summer, 
and now, dang my tripes, if I ain’t took again!” 

“Where did they catch you?” 

“Off Prawle Point on Tuesday in the Harvest, 
yawl of Brixham—I’m a Brixham man, y’under¬ 
stan’? Puddicombe by name. I did swere and 
vow once I was ashore I would never set foot afloat 
no more. Then my sister Johanna’s George took 
sick with a flux and I went in his place just for a 
day—and now here we are again—hey, hey!” 

“Who are all these foreigners?” asked Ortho. 

“Hollanders, took off a Dutch East Indiaman. 
This be her freight we’m lyin’ on now, see what 
I mean? They got it split up between the three 
on ’em. There’s three on ’em, y’understan’; was 
four, but the Hollander sank one before she was 
carried, so they say, and tore up t’other two cruel. 
The old reis —admiral that is—he’s lost his main¬ 
mast. You can hear he banging away at night to 
keep his consorts close; scared, y’understan’ ? How- 
sombeit they done well enough. Only been out two 


254 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


months and theyVe got the cream of an Indies 
freight, not to speak of three or four coasters and a 
couple of hundred poor sailors that should fetch 
from thirty to fifty ducats apiece in the soko. And 
then there’s the ransoms too, see what I mean?” 

‘‘Ransoms?” Ortho echoed. Was that a way 
home? Was it possible to be ransomed? He had 
money. 

“Aye, ransoms,” said Puddicombe. “You can 
thank your God on bended knees, young man, you 
ain’t nothin’ but a poor fisher lad with no money 
at your back, see what I mean?” 

“No, I don’t—why?” 

“Why—’cos the more they tortured you the more 
you’d squeal and the more your family would pay 
to get you out of it, y’understan’ ? There was a 
'dozen fat Mynheer merchants took on that India- 
man, and if they poor souls knew what they’re going 
through they’d take the first chance overboard— 
sharks is a sweet death to what these heathen serve 
you. I’ve seen some of it in Algiers city—see what 
I mean? Understan’?” 

Ortho did not answer; he had suddenly realized 
that he had never told Eli where the money was 
hidden—over seven hundred pounds—and how was 
he ever going to tell him now? He lay back on 
the bales and abandoned himself to unprofitable re¬ 
grets. 

Mr. Puddicombe, getting no response to his chat¬ 
ter, cracked his finger joints, his method of whiling 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


255 


away the time. The afternoon wore on, wore out. 
At sundown they were given a pittance of dry bread 
and stale water. Later on a man came down, 
knocked Ortho’s shackles off and signed him to fol¬ 
low. 

‘‘You’re to be questioned,” the ex-slave whispered. 
“Be careful now, y’understan’ ?” 

The Moors were at their evening meal, squatting, 
tight-packed round big pots, dipping for morsels 
with their bare hands, gobbling and gabbling. The 
galley was between decks, a brick structure built 
athwart-ship. As Ortho passed he caught a glimpse 
of the interior. It was a blaze of light from the 
fires before which a couple of negroes toiled, 
stripped to the waist, stirring up steaming caldrons’; 
the sweat glistened like varnish on their muscular 
bodies. 

His guide led him to the upper deck. The night 
breeze blew in his face, deliciously chill after the 
foul air below. He filled his lungs with draughts 
of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twin¬ 
kling lights—the admiral and the third ship. Be¬ 
low in their rat-run holds were scores of people 
in no better plight than himself. Ortho reflected, 
in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen 
were wounded. A merry world! 

His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The 
officer of the watch, a dark silhouette lounging 
against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped out 
a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. 


256 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


He opened the door of the poop cabin and thrust 
Ortho within. 

It was a small place, with the exception of a 
couple of brass-bound chests, a table and a chair, 
quite unfurnished, but it was luxurious after a 
fashion and, compared with the squalor of the hold, 
paradise. 

Mattresses were laid on the floor all round the 
walls, and on these were heaped a profusion of 
cushions, cushions of soft leather and of green and 
crimson velvet. The walls were draped with hang¬ 
ings worked with the same colors, and a lamp of 
fretted brass-work, with six burners, hung by chains 
from the ceiling. The gigantic Moor who had 
called the crew to prayers sat on the cushions in a 
corner, his feet drawn up under him, a pyramid of 
snowy draperies. He was running a chain of beads 
through his fingers, his lips moved in silence. More 
than ever did he look like a Bible patriarch. On 
the port side a tall Berber lay outstretched, his face 
to the wall; a watch-keeper taking his rest. At the 
table, his back to the ornamented rudder-casing, sat 
a stout little man with a cropped head, scarlet face 
and bright blue eyes. Ortho saw to his surprise 
that he did not wear Moorish dress but the heavy 
blue sea-coat of an English sailor, a canary muffler 
and knee-breeches. 

The little man’s unflinching bright eyes ran all 
over him. 

“Cornishman?” he inquired in perfect English. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


257 


‘Tes, sir.” 

‘‘Fisherman?” apprising the boy’s canvas smock, 
apron and boots. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Blown off-shore—eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Where from? Isles of Scllly?” 

“No, sir; Monks Cove.” 

“Where’s that?” 

“Sou’west corner of Mount’s Bay, sir, near Pen¬ 
zance.” 

“Penzance, ah-ha! Penzance,” the captain re¬ 
peated. “Now what do I know of Penzance?” He 
screwed his eyes up, rubbed the back of his head, 
puzzling. “Penzance!” 

Then he banged his fist on the table. “Damme, 
of course I” 

He turned to Ortho again. “Got any property 
in this Cove—houses, boats or belike?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Father? . . . Brothers? . . . Relations?” 

“Only a widowed mother, sir, and a brother.” 

“They got any property?” 

“No, sir.” 

“What does your brother do?” 

“Works on a farm, sir.” 

“Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and 
an old boat stopped up with tar—huh! Never 
mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.” 

He said something In Arabic to the old Moor, 


258 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


who wagged his flowing beard and went on with 
his beads. 

“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the 
guide; then as Ortho neared the door he called*out, 
“Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about. 

“You say you come from near Penzance. Well, 
did you run athwart a person by the name of Gish 
by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a 
Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money 
shipping ‘black-birds’ to the Plate River and retired 
home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is the 
name, Jerry Gish.” 

Ortho gaped. Gish'—Captain Jerry—he should 
think he did know him. He had been one of 
Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still 
hung after her, admired her gift of vituperation; 
had been in the Star Inn that night he had robbed 
her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They 
were always meeting at races and such-like; had 
made several disastrous bets with him. Old Jerry 
Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar 
name here among all these wild infidels, gave him 
an acute twinge of homesickness. 

“Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of 
him, I suppose?” 

Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know 
him very well.” 

The captain sat up. “You do?” Then with a 
snap: “How?” 

It flashed on Ortho that he must be careful. To 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


259 


disclose the circumstances under which he had hob¬ 
nobbed with Jerry Gish would be to give himself 
away. 

“How?” 

Ortho licked his lips. “He used to come to Cove 
a lot, sir. Was friendly like with the inn-keeper 
there. Was very gentlemanly with his money of an 
evening.” 

The captain sank back, his suspicions lulled. He 
laughed. 

“Free with the drink, mean you? Aye, I warrant 
old Jerry would be that—ha, ha!” He sat smiling 
at recollections, drumming his short fingers on the 
table. 

Some flying spray heads rattled on the stem win¬ 
dows. The brass lamp swung back and forth, its 
shadow swimming with it up and down the floor. 
The watchkeeper muttered in his sleep. Outside the 
wind moaned. The captain looked up. “Used to 
be a shipmate of mine, Jerry—when we were boys. 
Many a game weVe played. Did y’ ever hear him 
tell a story?” 

“Often, sir.” 

“You did, did you—spins a good yarn, Jerry— 
none better. Ever hear him tell of what we did to 
that old nigger woman in Port o’ Spain? Mac- 
Bride’s my name, Ben MacBride. Ever hear 
it?” 

“Yes, I believe I did, sir.” 

“That’s a good yarn that, eh? My God, she 


260 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

screeched, ha, ha!” Tears trickled out of his eyes 
at the memory. 

“Told you a good few yarns, I expect?*’ 

“Yes, sir, many.” 

“Remember ’em?” 

“I think so, sir.” 

“Do you? Hum-hurr!” He looked at Ortho 
again, seemed to be considering. 

“Do you?—ah, hem! Yes, very good. Well, 
you must go now. Time to snug down. Ahmed!” 

The guide stood to attention, received some in¬ 
structions in Arabic and led Ortho away. At the 
galley door he stopped, went inside, and came out 
bearing a lump of meat and a small cake which he 
thrust on Ortho, and made motions to show that it 
was by the captain’s orders. 

Three minutes later he was shackled down again. 

“How did you fare?” the Brixham man grunted 
drowsily. 

“Not so bad,” said Ortho. 

He waited till the other had gone to sleep, and 
then ate his cake and meat; he was ravenous and 
didn’t want to share it. 

Black day succeeded black night down in the hold, 
changing places imperceptibly. Once every twenty- 
four hours the prisoners were taken on deck for a 
few minutes; in the morning and evening they were 
fed. Nothing else served to break the stifling mo¬ 
notony. It seemed to Ortho that he had been 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


261 


chained up in blank gloom for untold years, gloom 
peopled with disembodied voices that became lo¬ 
quacious only in sleep. Courage gagged their wak¬ 
ing hours, but when they slept, and no longer 
had control of themselves, they talked, muttered, 
groaned and cried aloud for lost places and lost 
loves. At night that hold was an inferno, a dark 
cavern filled with damned souls wailing. Two Bis- 
cayners did actually fight once, but they didn’t fight 
for long, hadn’t spirit enough. It was over a few 
crumbs of bread that they fell out. The man on 
Ortho’s right, an old German seaman, never uttered 
a word. One morning when they came round with 
food he didn’t put his hand out for his portion and 
they found that he was dead—a fact the rats had 
discovered some hours before. The only person 
who was not depressed was Mr. Puddicombe, late of 
Brixham and Algiers. He had the advantage of 
knowing what he was called upon to face, combined 
with a strong strain of natural philosophy. 

England, viewed from Algiers, had seemed a 
green land of plenty, of perennial beer and skittles. 
When he got home he found he had to work harder 
than ever he had done in Africa and, after nine 
years of sub-tropics, the northern winter had bitten 
him to the bone. Provided he did not become a 
Government slave (which he thought unlikely, be¬ 
ing too old) he was not sure but that all was for 
the best. He was a good tailor and carpenter and 
generally useful about the house, a valuable posses- 


262 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


sion in short. He would be well treated. He would 
try to get a letter through to his old master, he 
said, and see if an exchange could be worked. He 
had been quite happy in Sidi Okbar Street. The 
notary had treated him more as a friend than a 
servant; they used to play “The King’s Game” (a 
form of chess) together of an evening. He thought 
Abd-el-Hamri, being a notary, a man of means, could 
easily effect the exchange, and then, once comforta¬ 
bly settled down to slavery in Algiers, nothing on 
earth should tempt him to take any more silly 
chances with freedom, he assured Ortho. He also 
gave him a lot of advice concerning his future con¬ 
duct. 

“I’ve taken a fancy to you, my lad,” he said one 
evening, “an’ I’m givin’ you advice others would 
pay ducats and golden pistoles to get, y’understan’ ?” 

Ortho was duly grateful. 

“Are you a professed Catholic by any chance?” 

“No, Protestant.” 

“Well, if you was a Catholic professed I should 
tell you to hold by it for a bit and see if the Re- 
demptionist Fathers could help you, but if you be 
a Protestant nobody won’t do nothin’ for you, so 
you’d best turn Renegado and turn sharp—like I 
done; see what I mean?” 

^^Renegador 

“Turn Moslem. Sing out night and momin’ that 
there’s only one Allah and nobody like him. After 
that they got to treat you kinder. If you’m a Kafir 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


263 


—Christian, so to speak—they’re doin’ this here 
Allah a favor by peltin’* stones at you. If you’re 
a Mohammedan you’re one of Allah’s own andvthey 
got to love you; see what I mean? Mind you, 
there’s drawbacks. You ain’t supposed to touch 
liquor, but that needn’t lie on your mind. God 
knows when the corsairs came home full to the 
hatches and business was brisk there was mighty few 
of us Renegados in Algiers city went sober to bed, 
y’understan’ ? Then there’s Ramadan. That means 
you got to close-reef your belt from sunrise to sun¬ 
set for thirty mortal days. If they catch you as 
much as sucking a lemon they’ll beat your innards 
out. I don’t say it can’t be done, but don’t let ’em 
catch you; see what I mean? Leaving aside his 
views on liquor and this here Ramadan, I ain’t got 
nothin’ against the Prophet. 

“When you get as old and clever as me you’ll 
find that religions is much like clo’es, wear what 
the others is wearin’ and you can do what you like. 
You take my advice, my son, and as soon as you 
land holla out that there’s only one Allah and keep 
on hollaing; understan’?” 

Ortho understood and determined to do likewise; 
essentially an opportunist, he would have cheerfully 
subscribed to devil worship had it been fashionable. 

One morning they were taken on deck and kept 
there till noon. Puddicombe said the officers were 
in the hold valuing the cargo; they were nearing 
the journey’s end. 


264 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


It was clear weather, full of sunshine. Packs 
of chubby cloud trailed across a sky of pale azure. 
The three ships were in close company, line ahead, 
the lame flagship leading, her lateens wing and wing. 
The gingerbread work on her high stern was one 
glitter of gilt and her quarters were carved with 
stars and crescent moons interwoven with Arabic 
scrolls. The ship astern was no less fancifully em¬ 
bellished. All three were decked out as for holiday, 
flying long coach-whip pennants from trucks and 
lateen peaks, and each had a big green banner at a 
jack-staff on the poop. 

No land was in sight, but there were signs of it. 
A multitude of gulls swooped and cried amo^g the 
rippling pennants; a bundle of cut bamboos drifted 
by and a broken basket. 

MacBride, a telescope under his arm, a fur cap 
cocked on the back of his head, strutted the poop. 
Presently he came down the upper deck and walked 
along the line of prisoners, inspecting them closely. 
He gave Ortho no sign of recognition, but later on 
sent for him. 

“Did Jerry Gish ever tell you the yarn of how 
him and me shaved that old Jew junk dealer in 
Derry and then got him pressed?” 

“No, sir.” 

MacBride related the story and Ortho laughed 
with great heartiness. 

“Good yarn, ain’t it?” said the captain. 

Ortho vowed it was the best he had ever heard. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


265 


“Of course you knowing old Jerry would appre¬ 
ciate it—these others:—!” The captain made the 
gesture of one whose pearls of reminiscence have 
been cast before swine. 

Ortho took his courage in both hands and told 
a story of how Captain Gish had got hold of a 
gypsy’s bear, dressed it up in a skirt, cloak and bon¬ 
net and let it loose in the Quakers’ meeting house 
in Penzance. As a matter of fact, it was not the 
inimitable Jerry who had done it at all, but a party 
of young squires; however, it served Ortho’s pur¬ 
pose to credit the exploit to Captain Gish. Captain 
Gish, as Ortho remembered him, was a dull old gen¬ 
tleman with theories of his own on the lost tribes 
of Israel which he was never tired of disclosing, 
but the Jerry Gish that MacBride remembered and 
delighted in was evidently a very different person—a 
spark, a blood, a devil of a fellow. Jeremiah must 
be maintained in the latter role at all costs. Ever 
since his visit to the cabin Ortho had been thinking 
of all boisterous jests he had ever heard and tailor¬ 
ing them to fit Jerry against such a chance as this. 
His repertoire was now extensive. 

The captain laughed most heartily at the episode 
of “good old Jerry” and the bear. Ortho knew 
how to tell a story; he had caught the trick from 
Pyramus. Encouraged, he was on the point of re¬ 
lating another when there came a long-drawn cry 
from aloft. The effect on the Arab crew was magi¬ 
cal. 


266 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Moghreb!” they cried. “Moghreb!” and, drop¬ 
ping whatever they hand in hand, raced for the main 
ratlines. Captain MacBride, however, was before 
them. He kicked one chocolate mariner in the 
stomach, planted his fist in the face of another, 
whacked yet another over the knuckles with his tel¬ 
escope, hoisted himself to the fife rail, and from that 
eminence distributed scalding admonitions to all and 
sundry. That done, he went hand over fist in a 
dignified manner up to the topgallant yard. 

The prisoners were sent below, but to the tween- 
decks this time instead of the hold. 

Land was in sight, the Brixham man informed 
Ortho. They had hit the mark off very neatly, at 
a town calledf Mehdia a few milesi above Sallee, or 
so he understood. If they could catch the tide 
they should be in by evening. The admiral was 
lacing bonnets on. The gun ports being closed, they 
could not see how they were progressing, but the 
Arabs were in a high state of elation; cheer after 
cheer rang out from overhead as they picked up 
familiar land-marks along the coast. Even the 
wounded men dragged themselves to the upper deck. 
The afternoon drew on. Puddicombe was of the 
opinion that they would" miss the tide and anchor 
outside, in which case they were in for another 
night’s pitching and rolling. Ortho devoutly trusted 
not; what with the vermin and rats in that hold 
he was nearly eaten alive. He was just beginning 
to give up hope when there came a sudden bark of 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


267 


orders from above, the scamper of bare feet, the 
chant of men hauling on braces and the creak of 
yards as they came over. 

“She’s come up,” said he of Brixham. “They’re 
stowing the square sails and going in under lateens. 
Whoop, there she goes ! Over the bar!” 

“Crash-oom!” went a gun. “Crash-oom!” went 
a second, a third and a fourth. 

“They’re firing at us!” said Ortho. 

Puddicombe snorted. “Aye—powder! That’s 
rejoicements, that is. You don’t know these Arabs; 
when the cow calves they fire a gun; that’s their 
way o’ laughing. Why, I’ve seen the corsairs come 
home to Algiers with all the forts blazin’ like as 
if there was a bombardment on. You wait, we’ll 
open up in a minute. Ah, there you are!” 

“Crash-oom!” bellowed the flagship ahead. 
“Zang! Zang!” thundered their own bow-chasers. 
“Crash-oom!” roared the ship astern, and the forts 
on either hand replied with deafening volleys. 
“Crack-wang! Crack-wang!” sang the little swivels. 
“Pop-pop-pop!” snapped the muskets ashore. In 
the lull came the noise of far cheering and the throb 
of drums and then the stunning explosions of the 
guns again. 

“They’ve dowsed the mizzen,” said Puddicombe. 
“Foresail next and let go. We’m most there, son; 
see what I mean?” 

They were taken off at dusk in a ferry float 
The three ships were moored head and stern in a 


268 


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small river with walled towns on either hand, a town 
built upon red cliffs to the south, a town built upon 
a flat shore to the north. To the east lay marshes 
and low hills beyond, with the full moon rising over 
them. 

The xebecs were surrounded by a mob of skiffs 
full of natives, all yelling and laughing and occasion¬ 
ally letting off a musket. One grossly overloaded 
boat, suddenly feeling its burden too great to bear, 
sank with all hands. 

Its occupants did not mind in the least; they 
splashed about, bubbling with laughter, baled the 
craft out and climbed in again. The ferry deposited 
its freight of captives on the spit to the north, 
where they were joined by the prisoners from the 
other ships, including some women taken on the 
Dutch Indiaman. They were then marched over 
the sand flats towards the town, and all the way the 
native women alternately shrieked for joy or cursed 
them. They lined the track up to the town, shape¬ 
less bundles of white drapery, and hurled ^and and 
abuse. One old hag left her long nail marks down 
Ortho’s cheek, another lifted her veil for a second 
and sprayed him with spittle. 

^^Kafir-b-Illah was rasoolT^ they screamed at the 
hated Christians. Then: **Zahrit! Zahrit! Zjah- 
ritr would go the shrill joy cries. 

Small boys with shorn heads and pigtails gam¬ 
boled alongside, poking them with canes and egging 
their curs on to bite them, and in front of the proces- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


269 


sion a naked black wild man of the mountains went 
leaping, shaking his long hair, whooping and bang¬ 
ing a goat-skin tambourine. 

They passed under a big horseshoe arch and were 
within the walls. Ortho got an impression of hud¬ 
dled flat houses gleaminjg white under the moon; of 
men and women in flowing white; donkeys, camels, 
children, naked negroes and renegade seamen jos¬ 
tling together in clamorous alleys; of muskets pop¬ 
ping, tom-toms thumping, pipes squeaking; of laugh¬ 
ter, singing and screams, while in his nostrils two 
predominant scents struggled for mastery—dung 
and orange blossom. 


CHAPTER XX 


O rtho and his fellow prisoners spent the 
next thirty-nine hours in one of the town 
mattamores, a dungeon eighteen feet deep, 
its sole outlet a trap-door in the ceiling. It was 
damp and dark as a vault, littered with filth and 
crawling with every type of intimate pest. The om¬ 
niscient Puddicombe told Ortho that such was the 
permanent lodging of Government slaves; they 
toiled all day on public works and were herded home 
at night to this sort of thing. 

More than ever was Ortho determined to for¬ 
swear his religion at the first opportunity. He 
asked if there were any chances of escape from 
Morocco. Puddicombe replied that there were 
none. Every man’s hand was against one; besides, 
Sidi Mahomet I. had swept the last Portuguese 
garrison (Mazagan) off the coast six years pre¬ 
viously, so where was one to run? He went on 
to describe some of the tortures inflicted on re¬ 
captured slaves—such as having limbs rotted off 
in quick-lime, being hung on hooks and sawn in half 
—and counseled Ortho most strongly, should any 
plan of escape present itself, not to divulge it to a 
soul. Nobody could be trusted. The slave gangs 
were sown thick with spies, and even those who 
270 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 271 

were not employed as such turned informer in order 
to acquire merit with their masters. 

“Dogs!” cried Ortho, blazing at such treachery. 

“Not so quick with your ‘dogs,’ ” said Puddi- 
combe, quietly. “You may find yourself doin’ it 
some day—^under the bastinado.” 

Something in the old man’s voice made the boy 
wonder if he were not speaking from experience, if 
he had not at some time, in the throes of torture, 
given a friend away. 

On the second day they were taken to the market 
and auctioned. Before the sale took place the Basha 
picked out a fifth of the entire number, including all 
the best men, and ordered them to be marched away 
as the Sultan’s perquisites. Ortho was one of those 
chosen in the first place, but a venerable Moor in 
a sky-blue jellab came to the rescue, bowing before 
the Governor, talking rapidly and pointing to Ortho 
the while. The great man nodded, picked a Dutch¬ 
man in his place and passed on. The public auc¬ 
tion then began, with much preliminary shouting 
and drumming. Prisoners were dragged out and 
minutely inspected by prospective buyers, had their 
chests thumped, muscles pinched, teeth inspected, 
were trotted up and down to expose their action, 
exactly like dumb beasts at a fair. 

The simile does not apply to Mr. Puddicombe. 
He was not dumb; he lifted up his voice and shouted 
some rigmarole in Arabic. Ortho asked him what 
he was saying. 


272 


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“Tellin’ ’em what I can do, bless you! Think 
I want to be bought by a poor man and moil in 
the fields? No, Fm going to a house where they 
have cous-cous every day—^y’understan’ ? See what 
I mean?” 

“Ahoy there, lords!” he bawled. “Behold me! 
Nine years was I in Algiers at the house of Abd-el- 
Hamri, the lawyer in Sidi Okbar Street. No 
Nesrani dog am I, but a Moslem, a True Believer. 
Moreover, I am skilled in sewing and carpentry 
and many kindred arts. Question me, lords, that 
ye may see I speak the truth. Ahoy there, behold 
me!” 

His outcry brought the buyers flocking. The auc¬ 
tioneer, seeing his opportunity, enlarged on Mr. 
Puddicombe’s supposed merits. Positively the most 
accomplished slave Algiers had ever seen, diligent, 
gifted and of celebrated piety. Not as young as 
he had been perhaps, but what of it? What was 
age but maturity, the ripeness of wisdom, the fruit 
of experience? Here was no gad-about boy to be 
forever sighing after the slave wenches, loitering 
beside the story-tellers and forgetting his duty, but 
a man of sound sense whose sole interests would 
be those of his master. What offers for this union 
of all the virtues, this household treasure? Stimu¬ 
lated by the dual advertisement, the bidding became 
brisk, the clamor deafening, and Mr. Puddicombe 
was knocked down, body and soul for seventeen 
pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence (fifty-three 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


273 


ducats) to a little hunch-back with ophthalmia, but 
of extreme richness of apparel. 

Prisoner after prisoner was sold off and led away 
by his purchaser until only Ortho remained. He 
was puzzled at this and wondered what to do next, 
when the venerable Moor in the blue jellab finished 
some transaction with the auctioneer and twitched 
at his sleeve. As the guards showed no objection, 
or, indeed, any further interest in him, he followed 
the blue jellab. The blue jellab led the way west¬ 
wards up a maze of crooked lanes until they reached 
the summit of the town, and there, under the shadow 
of the minaret, opened a door in an otherwise blank 
wall, passed up a gloomy tunnel, and brought Ortho 
out into a courtyard. 

The court was small, stone-paved, with a single 
orange tree growing in the center and arcades sup¬ 
ported on fretted pillars running all round. 

A couple of slave negresses were sweeping the 
courtyard with palmetto brooms under the oral 
goadings of an immensely stout old Berber woman, 
and on the north side, out of the sun, reclining on 
a pile of cushions, sat Captain Benjamin MacBride, 
the traditional picture of the seafarer ashore, his 
pipe in his mouth, his tankard within reach, both 
arms filled with girl. He had a slender, kindling 
Arab lass tucked in the crook of his right arm, his 
left arm encompassed two fair-skinned Moorish 
beauties. They were unveiled, bejeweled and tinted 
like ripe peaches; their haiks were of white silk. 


274 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


their big-sleeved undergarments of colored satin; 
their toes were*painted with henna and so were their 
fingers; they wore black ink beauty spots on their 
cheeks. Not one of the brilliant little birds of par¬ 
adise could have passed her seventeenth year. 

Captain MacBride’s cherry-hued countenance 
wore an expression of profound content. 

He hailed Ortho with a shout, “Come here, 
boy!” and the three little ladies sat up, stared at 
the newcomer and whispered to each other, titter¬ 
ing. 

‘TVe bought you, d’ y’ see?” said MacBride. 

“An’ a tidy penny you cost me. If the Basha 
wasn’t my very good friend you’d ha’ gone to the 
quarries and had your heart broken first and your 
back later, so you’re lucky. Now bestir yourself 
round about and do what old Saheb (indicating the 
blue jellab) tells you, or to the quarries you go— 
see? What d’ y’ call yourself, heh?” 

Ortho told him. 

“Ortho Penhale; that’ll never do.” He consulted 
the birds of paradise, who tried the outlandish 
words over, but could not shape their tongues to 
them. They twittered and giggled and wrangled 
and patted MacBride’s cheerful countenance. 

“Hark ’e,” said he at last. “Tama wants to name 
you ‘Chitane’ because you look wicked. Ayesha 
is for ‘Sejra’ because you’re tall, but Schems-ed-dah 
here says you ought to be called ‘Said’ because you’re 
lucky to be here.” He pressed the dark Arab girl 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ns 


to him. “So ‘Said’ be it. ‘Said’ I baptize thee 
henceforth and forever more—see?” 

Break-of-Dawn embraced her lord, Tama and 
Ayesha pouted. He presented them with a large 
knob of colored sweetmeat apiece and the^y-were all 
smiles again. Peace was restored and Ortho 
stepped back under his new name, “Said”—the for¬ 
tunate one. 

From then began his life of servitude at the house 
on the hill and it was not disagreeable. His duties 
were to tend the captain’s horse and the household 
donkey, fetch wood and water and run errands. 
In the early morning MacBride would mount his 
horse (a grossly overfed, cow-hocked chestnut), 
leave the town by the Malka Gate, ride hell-for- 
leather, every limb in convulsion, across the sands 
to the shipyards at the southeast corner of the town. 
Ortho, by cutting through the Jews’ quarter and 
out of the Mrisa Gate as hard as he could run, usu¬ 
ally managed to arrive within a few minutes of the 
captain and spent the rest of the morning walking 
the horse about while his master supervised the 
work in the yards. These were on the bend of 
the river under shelter of a long wall, a continuation 
of the town fortifications. Here the little xebecs 
were drawn up on ways and made ready for sea. 
Renegade craftsmen sent spars up and down, toiled 
like spiders in webs of rigging, splicing and parcel¬ 
ing; plugged shot holes, repaired splintered upper 
works, painted and gilded the flamboyant beaks and 


276 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


sterns, while gangs of slaves hove on the huge shore 
capstans, bobbed like mechanical dolls in the saw- 
pits, scraped the slender hulls and payed them over 
with boiling tallow. There were sailmakers to 
watch as well, gunsmiths and carvers; plenty to see 
and admire. 

The heat of the day MacBride spent on the shady 
side of his court in siesta among his ladies, and 
Ortho released the donkey from its tether among 
the olive trees outside the Chaafa Gate and fetched 
wood and water, getting the former from charcoal 
burners’ women from the Forest of Marmora. He 
met many other European slaves similarly employed 
—Frenchmen, Spaniards, Italians, Dutchmen, Portu¬ 
guese, Greeks and not a few British. They spoke 
Arabic together and a lingua franca, a compound 
of their several tongues, but Ortho was not attracted 
by any of them; they were either too reticent or 
too friendly. He remembered what Puddicombe 
had said about spies and kept his mouth shut ex¬ 
cept on the most trivial topics. Puddicombe he fre¬ 
quently encountered in the streets, but never at the 
wells or in the charcoal market. The menial hauling 
of wood and drawing of water were not for that 
astute gentleman; he had passed onto a higher plane 
and was now steward with menials under him. 

His master (whom he designated as “Sore- 
Eyes”) was very amiable when not suffering from 
any of his manifold infirmities, amiable, not to say 
indulgent. He had shares in every corsair in the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


277 


port, fifteen cows and a large orchard. The slaves 
had couscous, fat mutton and chicken scrapings al¬ 
most every day, butter galore and as much fruit 
as they could eat. He was teaching Sore-Eyes the 
King’s Game and getting into his good graces. But, 
purposely, not too deep. Did he make himself in¬ 
dispensable Sore-Eyes might refuse to part with him 
and he would not see Sidi Okbar Street again—a 
Jew merchant had promised to get his letter through. 
Between his present master and the notary there 
was little to choose, but Sallee was a mere rat-hole 
compared with Algiers. He enlarged on the city 
of his captivity, its white terraces climbing steeply 
from the blue harbor, its beauty, wealth and activ¬ 
ity with all the tremulous passion of an exile pining 
for home. 

Many free renegades were there also about the 
town with whom Ortho was on terms of friend¬ 
ship—mutineers, murderers, ex-convicts, wanted 
criminals to a man. These gentry were almost en¬ 
tirely employed either as gunners and petty officers 
aboard the corsairs or as skilled laborers in the 
yards. They had their own grog-shops and resorts, 
and when they had money lived riotously and invited 
everybody to join. Many a night did Ortho spend 
in the renegado taverns when the rovers were in 
after a successful raid, watching them dicing for 
shares of plunder and dancing their clattering horn¬ 
pipes; listening to their melancholy and boastful 
songs, to their wild tales of battle and disaster. 


278 


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sudden affluence and debauch; tales of superstition 
and fabulous adventure, of phantom ships, ghost 
islands, white whales, sea dragons, Jonahs and mer¬ 
maids; of the pleasant pirate havens in the main, 
slave barracoons on the Guinea coast, orchid-poi¬ 
soned forests in the Brazils, of Indian moguls who 
rode on jeweled elephants beneath fans of peacock 
feathers, and the ice barriers to the north, where 
the bergs stood mountain-high and glittered like 
green glass. 

Sometimes there were brawls when the long 
sheath knives came out and one or other of the com¬ 
batants dropped, occasionally both. They were 
hauled outside by the heels and the fun went on 
again. But these little unpleasantnesses were excep¬ 
tional. The “mala casta” ashore were the essence 
of good fellowship and of a royal liberality; they 
were especially generous to the Christian captives, 
far more kindly than the slaves were to each other. 

The habitual feeling of restraint, of suspicion, 
vanished before the boisterous conviviality of these 
rascals. When the fleets came, banging and cheer¬ 
ing, home over the bar into the Bou Regreg and 
the “mala casta” were in town blowing their money 
in, the Europeans met together, spoke openly, 
drank, laughed and were friends. When they were 
gone the cloud descended once more, the slaves 
looked at each other slant-wise and walked apart. 

But Ortho cared little for that; he was at home 
in the house on the hill and passably happy. It 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


279 


was only necessary for him to watch the Govern¬ 
ment slaves being herded to work in the quarries 
and salt-pans, ill-clad, half-starved, battered along 
with sticks and gun butts, to make him content with 
his mild lot. Not for nothing had he been named 
“Said,” the fortunate. 

He had no longer any thought of escape. One 
morning returning with wood he met a rabble in 
the narrow Souika. They had a mule in their midst, 
and dragging head down at the mule’s tail was what 
had once been a man. His hands were strapped 
behind him so that he could in no way protect him¬ 
self but bumped along the ruts and cobbles, twist¬ 
ing over and over. His features were gone, there 
was not a particle of skin left on him, and at this 
red abomination the women cursed, the beggars 
spat, the children threw stones and the dogs tore. 

It was a Christian, Ortho learnt, a slave who had 
killed his warder, escaped and been recaptured. 

The rabble went on, shouting and stoning, 
towards the Fez Gate, and Ortho drove his donkey 
home, shivering, determined that freedom was too 
dear at that risk. There was nothing in his life 
at the captain’s establishment to make him anxious 
to run. The ample Mahma did not regard him 
with favor, but that served to enhance him in the 
eyes of Saheb, the steward, between whom and the 
housekeeper there was certain rivalry and no love 
lost. 

The two negresses were merely lazy young ani- 


280 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


mals with no thoughts beyond how much work 
they could avoid and how much food they could 
steal. Of the harem beauties he saw little except 
when MacBride was present and then they were 
fully occupied with their lord. MacBride was amia¬ 
bility itself. 

Captain MacBride at sea, at the first sign of in¬ 
discipline, tricing his men to the main-jeers and 
flogging them raw; Captain MacBride, yard-master 
of Sallee, bellowing blasphemies at a rigger on a 
top-mast truck, laying a caulker out with his own 
mallet for skimped work, was a totally different 
person from Ben MacBride of the house on the 
hill. The moment he entered its portals he, as it 
were, resigned his commission and put on childish 
things. He would issue from the tunnel and stand 
in the courtyard, clapping his hands and hallooing 
for his dears. With a flip-flap of embroidered slip¬ 
pers, a jingle of bangles and twitters of welcome 
they would be on him and he would disappear in 
a whirl of billowing haiks. The embraces over, 
he would disgorge his pockets of the masses of pink 
and white sweetmeats he purchased daily and maybe 
produce a richly worked belt for Ayesha, a necklace 
of scented beads for Tama, fretted gold hair orna¬ 
ments for Schems-ed-dah, and chase them round and 
round the orange tree while the little things snatched 
at his flying coat-tails and squealed in mock terror. 

What with overseeing the yards, where battered 
corsairs were constantly refitting, and supervising 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


281 


the Pilot’s School, where young Moors were taught 
the rudiments of navigation, MacBride was kept 
busy during the day, and his household saw little 
of him, but in the evenings he returned rejoicing 
to the bosom of his family, never abroad to stray, 
the soul of domesticity. He would lounge on the 
heaped cushions, his long pipe in his teeth, his 
tankard handy, Schems-ed-dah nestling against one 
shoulder, Tama and Ayesha taking turns with the 
other, and call for his jester. Said. 

“Hey, boy, tell us about ole Jerry and the bear.” 

Then Ortho would squat and tell imaginary an¬ 
ecdotes of Jerry, and the captain would hoot and 
splutter and choke until the three little girls thumped 
him normal again. 

“Rot me, but ain’t that rich?” he would moan, 
tears brightening his scarlet cheeks. “Ain’t that jist 
like ole Jerry—the ole rip! He-he! Tell us an¬ 
other, Said—that about the barber he shaved and 
painted like his own pole—go on.” 

Said would tell the story. At first he had been 
at pains to invent new episodes for Captain Gish, 
that great hero of MacBride’s boyhood, but he soon 
found it quite unnecessary; the old would do as well 
—nay, better. It was like telling fairy stories to 
children, always the old favorites in the old words. 
His audience knew exactly what was coming, but 
that in no way served to dull their delight when it 
came. As Ortho (or Said) approached a well-worn 
climax a tremor of delicious expectancy would run 


282 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


through Schems-ed-dah (he was talking in Arabic 
now), Tama and Ayesha would clasp hands, and 
MacBride sit up, eyes fixed on the speaker, mouth 
open, like a terrier ready to snap a biscuit. Then 
the threadbare climax. MacBride would cast him¬ 
self backwards and beat the air with ecstatic legs; 
Schems-ed-dah clap her hands and laugh like a ripple 
of fairy bells; Ayesha and Tama hug each other 
and swear their mirth would kill them. 

When they recovered, the story-teller was re¬ 
warded with rum and tobacco from that staunch 
Moslem MacBride, with sweetmeats and mint tea 
from the ladies. He enjoyed his evenings. During 
the winter they sat indoors before charcoal braziers 
in which burned sticks of aromatic wood, but on 
the hot summer nights they took to the roof to 
catch the sea breeze. Star-bright, languorous nights 
they were. 

Below them the white town, ghostly glimmering, 
sloped away to the coast and the flats. Above them 
the slender minaret, while on the lazy wind came the 
drone of breakers and the faint sweet scent of spice 
gardens. Voluptuous, sea-murmurous nights, milk- 
warm, satin-soft under a tent of star-silvered purple. 

Sometimes Schems-ed-dah fingered a gounibri and 
sang plaintive desert songs of the Bedouin women, 
the two other girls, snuggling, half-asleep, against 
MacBride’s broad chest, crooning the refrains. 

Sometimes Ayesha, stirred by moonlight, would 
dance, clicking her bracelets, tinkling tiny brass cym- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


283 


bals between her fingers, swaying her graceful body 
backwards and sideways, poising on her toes, arms 
outstretched, like a sea-bird drifting, stamping her 
heels and shuddering from head to toe. 

Besides story-telling. Ortho occasionally lifted up 
his voice in song. He had experimented with his 
mother’s guitar in times gone by and found he could 
make some show with the gounibri. 

He sang Romany ditties he had learnt on his 
travels, and these were approved of by the Moorish 
girls, being in many ways akin to their own. But 
mostly he sang sea songs for the benefit of Mac- 
Bride, who liked to swell the chorus with his bull 
bellow. They sang “Cawsand Bay,” “Baltimore,” 
“Lowlands Low” and “The Sailor’s Bride,” and 
made much cheerful noise about it, on one occasion 
calling down on themselves the reproof of the 
muezzin, who rebuked them from the summit of 
the minaret, swearing he could hardly hear himself 
shout. Eleven months Ortho remained in congenial 
bondage in Sallee. 

Then one morning MacBride sent for him. “I’m 
goin’ to set you free, Sai’d, my buck,” said he. 

Ortho was aghast, asked what he had done amiss. 

MacBride waved his hand. “I ain’t got nothin’ 
against you as yet, but howsomdever I reckon I’d 
best turn you loose. I’m goin’ to sea again—as 
reis.” 

“Reis!” Ortho exclaimed. “What of Abdullah 
Benani ?” 


284 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Had his neck broken by the Sultan’s orders in 
Mequinez three days ago for losin’ them three 
xebecs off Corunna. I’m to go in his place. I’ve 
settled about you with the Basha. You’re to go 
to the Makhzen Horse as a free soldier. I’ll find 
you a nag and gear; when you sack a rich kasha 
you can pay me back. You’ll make money if you’re 
clever—and don’t get shot first.” 

“Can’t I go with you?” 

“No. We only take Christians with prices on 
their heads at home. They don’t betray us then— 
you might.” 

“Well, can’t I stop here in Sallee?” 

“That you cannot. It has struck me that you’ve 
been castin’ too free an eye on my girls. Mind 
you, I don’t blame you. You’re young and they’re 
pretty; it’s only natural. But it wouldn’t be natural 
for me to go to sea and leave you here with a free 
run. Anyhow I’m not doin’ it.” 

Ortho declared with warmth that MacBride’s sus¬ 
picions were utterly unfounded, most unjust; he was 
incapable of such base disloyalty. 

The captain wagged his bullet head. “Maybe, 
but I’m not takin’ any risks. Into the army you 
go—or the quarries.” 

Ortho declared hastily for the army. 

A fortnight later MacBride led his fleet out over 
the bar between saluting forts, and Ortho, with less 
ceremony, took the road for Mequinez. 

That phase of his existence was over. He had a 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


285 


sword, a long match-lock and a passable Barb pony 
under him. Technically he was a free man; actually 
he was condemned to a servitude vastly more exact¬ 
ing than that which he had just left. A little money 
might come his way, bullets certainly, wounds prob¬ 
ably, possibly painful death—and death was the 
only discharge. 

He pulled up his horse at the entrance of the 
forest and looked back. His eye was caught by the 
distant shimmer of the sea^—the Atlantic. He was 
going inland among the naked mountains and tawny 
plains of this alien continent, might never see it 
again. 

The Atlantic!—the same ocean that beat in blue, 
white and emerald upon the shores of home, within 
the sound of whose surges he had been born. It 
was like saying good-by to one’s last remaining 
friend. He looked upon Sallee. There lay the 
white town nestling in the bright arm of the Bou 
Regreg, patched with the deep green of fig and 
orange groves. There soared the minaret, its tiles 
a-wink in the sunshine. Below it, slightly to the 
right, he thought he could distinguish the roof of 
MacBride’s house—-the roof of happy memories. 
He wondered if Schems-ed-dah were standing on it 
looking after him. What cursed luck to be kicked 
out just as he was coming to an understanding with 
Schems-ed-dah! 


CHAPTER XXI 


O rtho sat on the bare hillside and watched 
his horses coming in. They came up the 
gully below him in a drove, limping from 
their hobbles—grays, chestnuts, bays, duns and 
blacks, blacks predominating. It was his ambition 
to command a squadron of blacks, and he was chop¬ 
ping and changing to that end. They would look 
well on parade, he thought, a line of glossy black 
Doukkala stallions with scarlet trappings, bestridden 
by lancers in the uniform white burnoose—^black, 
white and scarlet. Such a display should catch the 
Sultan’s eye and he would be made a Kaid Rahal. 

He was a Kaid Mia already. Sheer luck had 
given him his first step. 

When he first joined the Makhzen cavalry he 
found himself stablemates with an elderly Prussian 
named Fleischmann, who had served with Frederick 
the Great’s dragoons at Rossbach, Liegnitz and 
Torgau, a surly, drunken old sahreur with no per¬ 
sonal ambition beyond the assimilation of loot, but 
possessed of experience and a tongue to disclose it. 
In his sober moments he held forth to Ortho on 
the proper employment of horse. He did not share 
the common admiration for the crack askar lances, 
but poured derision upon them. They were all blus- 
286 


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287 


ter and bravado, he said, stage soldiers with no real 
discipline to control them in a tight corner. He 
admitted they were successful against rebel hordes, 
but did they ever meet a resolute force he prophesied 
red-hot disaster and prayed he might not be there. 

His prayer was granted. Disaster came and he 
was not there, having had his head severed from 
his shoulders a month previously while looting when 
drunk and meeting with an irritated householder 
who was sober. 

Ortho was in the forefront of the disaster. The 
black Janizaries, the Bou Khari, were having one 
of their periodic mutinies and had been drummed 
into the open by the artillery. The cavalry were 
ordered to charge. Instead of stampeding when 
they saw the horse sweeping on them, the negroes 
lay down, opened a well-directed fire and emptied 
saddles right and left. 

A hundred yards from the enemy the lancers 
flinched and turned tail, and the Bou Khari brought 
down twice as many more. Ortho did not turn. In 
the first place he did not know the others had gone 
about until it was too late to follow them, and 
secondly his horse, a powerful entire, was crazy 
with excitement and had charge of him. He 
slammed clean through the Bou Khari like a thun¬ 
derbolt with nothing worse than the fright of his 
life and a slight flesh wound. 

He had a confused impression of fire flashing 
all about him, bullets whirring and droning round 


288 


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his head, black giants springing up among the rocks, 
yells—and he was through. He galloped on for a 
bit, made a wide detour round the flank and got 
back to what was left of his own ranks. 

Returning, he had time to meditate, and the truth 
of the late (and unlamented) Fleischmann’s words 
came back to him. That flesh wound had been 
picked up at the beginning of the charge. The 
nearer he had got the wilder the fire had become. 
The negroes he had encountered flung themselves 
flat; he could have skewered them like pigs. If the 
whole line had gone on all the blacks would have 
flung themselves flat and been skewered like pigs. 
A regiment of horse charges home with the impact 
of a deep-sea breaker, hundreds of tons. 

The late Fleischmann had been right in every par¬ 
ticular. The scene of the affair was littered with 
dead horses and white heaps, like piles of crumpled 
linen—their riders. The Bou Khari had advanced 
and were busy among these, stripping the dead, stab¬ 
bing the wounded, cheering derisively from time to 
time. 

Ortho had no sooner rejoined his depleted ranks 
than a miralai approached and summoned him to 
the presence of Sidi Mahomet himself. 

The puissant grandson of the mighty Muley 
Ismail was on a hillock where he could command 
the whole field, sitting on a carpet under a white 
umbrella, surrounded by his generals, who were 
fingering their beards and looking exceedingly down- 


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cast, which was not unnatural, seeing that at least 
half of them expected to be beheaded. 

The Sultan’s face was an unpleasant sight. He 
bit at the stem of his hookah and his fingers twitched, 
but he was not ungracious to the renegade lancer 
who did obeisance before him. 

“Stand up,” he growled. “Thou of all my askars 
hast no need to grovel. How comes it that you 
alone went through?” 

“Sidi,” said Ortho, “the Sultan’s enemies are 
mine—and it was not difficult. I know the way.” 

Mahomet’s delicate eyebrows arched. “Thou 
knowest the way—ha! Then thou art wiser than 
these . . . these”—he waved his beautiful hand 
towards the generals—“these sorry camel cows who 
deem themselves warriors. Tell these ass-mares 
thy secret. Speak up and fear not.” 

Ortho spoke out. He said nothing about his 
horse having bolted with him, that so far from be¬ 
ing heroic he was numb with fright. He spoke with 
the voice of Fleischmann, deceased, expounded the 
Prussian’s theory of discipline and tactics as applied 
to shock cavalry, and, having heard them ad 
nauseam^ missed never a point. All the time the 
Sultan sucked at his great hookah and never took 
his ardent, glowering eyes from his face, and all 
the time in the background the artillery thumped 
and the muskets crackled. 

He left the royal presence a Kaid Mia, command¬ 
ing a squadron, a bag of one hundred ducats in his 


290 


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hand, and a month later the cavalry swept over the 
astonished Bou Khari as a flood sweeps a mud bank, 
steeled by the knowledge that a regiment of Im¬ 
perial infantry and three guns were in their rear 
with orders to mow them down did they waver. 
They thundered through to victory, and the Kaid 
Said el Ingliz (which was another name for Ortho 
Penhale) rode, perforce, in the van—wishing to 
God he had not spoken—and took a pike thrust in 
the leg and a musket ball in his ribs and was laid 
out of harm’s way for months. 

But that was past history, and now he was watch¬ 
ing his horses come in. They were not looking any 
too well, he thought, tucked-up, hide-bound, scraggy 
—been campaigning overlong, traveling hard, feed¬ 
ing anyhow, standing out in all weathers. He was 
thoroughly glad this tax-collecting tour was at a 
close and he could get them back into garrison. His 
men drove them up to their heel-pegs, made them 
fast for the night, tossed bundles of grass before 
them and sought the camp fires that twinkled cheer¬ 
ily in the twilight. A couple of stallions squealed, 
there was the thud of a shoe meeting cannon-bone 
and another squeal, followed by the curses of the 
horse-guard. A man by the fires twanged an oud 
and sang an improvised ditty on a palm-tree in his 
garden at Tafilet: 

“A queen among palms, 

Very tall, very stately, 


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291 


The sun gilds her verdure 
With glittering kisses. 

And in the calm night time, 

Among her green tresses, 

The little stars tremble.” 

Ortho drew the folds of his jellab closer about 
him—it was getting mighty cold—stopped to speak 
to a farrier on the subject of the shoe shortage and 
sought the miserable tent which he shared with his 
lieutenant, Osman Baki, a Turkish adventurer from 
Rumeli Hissar. 

Osman was just in from headquarters and had 
news. The engineers reported their mines laid and 
the Sari was going to blow the town walls at moon- 
rise—in an hour’s time. The infantry were already 
mustering, but there were no orders for the horse. 
The Sari was in a vile temper, had commanded that 
all male rebels were to be killed on sight, women 
optional—looting was open. Osman picked a mut¬ 
ton bone, chattering and shaking; the mountain cold 
had brought out his fever. He would not go storm¬ 
ing that night, he said, not for the plunder of 
Vienna; slung the mutton bone out of doors, curled 
up on the ground, using his saddle for pillow, and 
pulled every available covering over himself. 

Ortho ate his subordinate’s share of the meager 
repast, stripped himself to his richly laced kaftan, 
stuck a knife in his sash, picked up a sword and a 
torch and went out. 

The general was short of cavalry, unwilling to 


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risk his precious bodyguard, and had therefore not 
ordered them into the attack. Ortho was going 
nevertheless; he was not in love with fighting, but 
he wanted money—he always wanted money. 

He walked along the camp fires, picked ten of the 
stoutest and most rascally of his rascals, climbed 
out of the gully and came in view of the beleaguered 
kasba. It was quite a small place, a square fortress 
of mud-plastered stone standing in a gorge of the 
Major Atlas and filled with obdurate mountaineers 
who combined brigandage with a refusal to pay 
tribute. A five-day siege had in no wise weakened 
their resolve. Ortho could hear drums beating in¬ 
side, while from the towers came defiant yells and 
splutters of musketry. 

“If we can’t get in soon the snow will drive us 
away—and they know it,’’ he said to the man beside 
him, and the man shivered and thought of warm 
Tafilet. 

“Yes, lord,” said he, “and there’s naught of value 
in that roua. Had there been, the Sari would have 
not thrown the looting open. A sheep, a goat or 
so—paugh! It is not worth our trouble.” 

“They must be taught a lesson, I suppose,” said 
Ortho. 

The man shrugged. “They will be dead when 
they learn it.” 

A German sapper slouched by whistling “Im 
Griinewald mein Lieb, und ich,” stopped and spoke 
to Ortho. They had worked right up to the walls by 


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means of trenches covered with fascines, he said, and 
were going to blow them in two places simulta¬ 
neously and rush the breaches. The blacks were 
going in first. These mountaineers fought like 
devils, but he did not think there were more than 
two hundred of them, and the infantry were vicious, 
half-starved, half-frozen, impatient to be home. 
Snow was coming, he thought; he could smell it— 
whew I 

A pale haze blanched the east; a snow peak 
gleamed with ghostly light; surrounding stars 
blinked as though blinded by a brighter glory, 
blinked and faded out. Moon-rise. The German 
called “Besslama!” and hurried to his post. The 
ghost-light strengthened. Ortho could see ragged 
infantrymen creeping forward from rock to rock; 
some of them dragged improvised ladders. He 
heard sly chuckles, the chink of metal on stone and 
the snarl of an officer commanding silence. 

In the village the drums went on—thump, thump; 
thump, thump—unconscious of impending doom. 

“Dogs of the Sultan,’’ screamed a man on the 
gate-tower. “Little dogs of a big dog, may Gehenna 
receive you, may your mothers be shamed and your 
fathers eat filth—a-he-yah!” His chance bullet hit 
the ground in front of Ortho, ricocheted and found 
the man from Tafilet. He rolled over, sighed one 
word, “nkhel”—palm groves—and lay still. 

His companions immediately rifled the body—war 
is war. A shining edge, a rim of silver coin, showed 


294 


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over a saddle of the peaks. mareV^ said the sol¬ 
diers. “The moon—ah, nowP* 

The whispers and laughter ceased; every tattered 
starveling lay tense, expectant. 

In the village the drums went on—thump, thump; 
thump, thump. The moon climbed up, up, dragged 
herself clear of the peaks, drenching the snow 
fields with eerie light, drawing sparkles here, 
shadows there; a dead goddess rising out of frozen 
seas. 

The watchers held their breath, slowly released 
it, breathed again. 

“Wah! the mines have failed,” a man muttered. 
“The powder was damp. I knew it.” 

“It is the ladders now, or nothing,” growled an¬ 
other. “Why did the Sari not bring cannon?” 

“The Tobjyah say the camels could not carry 
them in these hills,” said a third. 

“The Tobjyah tell great lies,” snapped the first. 
“I know for certain that . . . hey!” 

The north corner of the kasba was suddenly en¬ 
veloped in a fountain of flame, the ground under 
Ortho gave a kick, and there came such an appalling 
clap of thunder he thought his ear-drums had been 
driven in. His men scrambled to their feet cheer¬ 
ing. 

“Hold fast! Steady!” he roared. “There Is an¬ 
other yet . . . ah!” The second mine went up as 
the debris of the first came down—mud, splinters, 
stones and shreds of human flesh. 


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295 


A lump of plaster smashed across his shoulders 
and an infantryman within a yard of him got his 
back broken by a falling beam. When Ortho lifted 
his head again it was to hear the exultant whoops 
of the negro detachments as they charged for the 
breaches. In the village the drums had stopped; 
it was as dumb as a grave. He held his men back. 
He was not out for glory. 

“Let the blacks and infantry meet the resistance,” 
he said. “That man with a broken back had a lad¬ 
der—eh? Bring it along.” 

He led his party round to the eastern side, put 
his ladder up and got over without dispute. The 
tribesmen had recovered from their shock to a cer¬ 
tain extent and were concentrating at the breaches, 
leaving the walls almost unguarded. A mountaineer 
came charging along the parapet, shot one of 
Ortho’s men through the stomach as he himself was 
shot through the head, and both fell writhing into 
a courtyard below. 

The invaders passed from the wall to a flat roof, 
and there were confronted by two more stalwarts 
whom they cut down with difficulty. There was a 
fearful pandemonium of firing, shrieks, curses and 
war-whoops going on at the breaches, but the streets 
were more or less deserted. A young and ardent 
askar kaid trotted by, beating his tag-rag on with 
his sword-flat. He yelped that he had come over 
the wall and was going to take the defenders in 
the rear; he called to Ortho for support. Ortho 


296 


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promised to follow and turned the other way— 
plunder, plunder! 

The alleys were like dry torrent beds underfoot, 
not five feet deep and dark as tunnels. Ortho lit his 
torch and looked for doors in the mud walls. In 
every case they were barred, but he battered them 
in with axes brought for that purpose—^to find noth¬ 
ing worth the trouble. 

Miserable hovels all, with perhaps a donkey and 
some sheep in the court and a few leathery women 
and children squatting in the darkness wailing their 
death-song. Ornaments they wore none—buried of 
course; there was the plunder of at least two rich 
Tamgrout caravans hidden somewhere in that vil¬ 
lage. His men tortured a few of the elder women 
to make them disclose the treasure, but though they 
screamed and moaned there was nothing to be got 
out of them. One withered hag did indeed offer 
to show them where her grandson hid his valuables, 
led them into a small room, suddenly jerked a 
koummyah from the folds of her haik and laid 
about her, foaming at the mouth. 

The room was cramped, the men crowded and 
taken unawares; the old fury whirled and shrieked 
and chopped like a thing demented. She wounded 
three of them before they laid her out. One man 
had his arm nearly taken off at the elbow. Ortho 
bound it up as best he could and ordered him back 
to camp, but he never got there. He took the wrong 


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297 


turning, fell helpless among some other women and 
was disemboweled. 

“Y’ Allah, the Sultan wastes time and lives,” said 
an askar. “The sons of such dams will never pay 
taxes.” 

Ortho agreed. He had lost two men dead and 
three wounded, and had got nothing for it but a few 
sheep, goats and donkeys. The racket at the 
breaches had died down, the soldiery were pouring 
in at every point. It would be as well to secure 
what little he had. He drove his bleating captures 
into a court, mounted his men on guard and went 
to the door to watch. 

An infantryman staggered down the lane bent un¬ 
der a brass-bound coffer. Ortho kicked out his foot; 
man and box went headlong. The man sprang up 
and flew snarling at Ortho, who beat him in the eyes 
with his torch and followed that up with menaces of 
his sword. The man fled and Ortho examined the 
box which the fall had burst open. It contained a 
brass tiara, some odds and ends of tarnished Fez 
silk, a bride’s belt and slippers; that was all. Value 
a few blanquils—faugh! 

He left the stuff where it lay in the filth of the 
kennel, strolled aimlessly up the street, came oppo¬ 
site a splintered door and looked in. 

The house was more substantial than those he had 
visited, of two stories, with a travesty of a fountain 
bubbling in the court. The infantry had been there 


298 


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before him. Three women and an old man were 
lying dead beside the fountain and in a patch of 
moonlight an imperturbable baby sat playing with 
a kitten. 

An open stairway led aloft. Ortho went up, im¬ 
pelled by a sort of idle curiosity. There was a 
room at the top of the stair. He peered in. Ran¬ 
sacked. The sole furniture the room possessed—a 
bed—had been stripped of its coverings and over¬ 
turned. He walked round the walls, prodding with 
his sword at suspicious spots in the plaster in the 
hopes of finding treasure. Nothing. 

At the far end of the gallery was another room. 
Mechanically he strolled towards it, thinking of 
other things, of his debts in Mequinez, of how to 
feed his starved horses on the morrow—these peo¬ 
ple must at least have some grain stored, in sealed 
pits probably. He entered the second room. It 
was the same as the first, but it had not been ran¬ 
sacked; it was not worth the trouble. A palmetto 
basket and an old jellab hung on one wall, a bed 
was pushed against the far wall—and there was a 
dead man. Ortho examined him by the flare of his 
torch. A low type of chiaus foot soldier, fifty, 
diseased, and dressed in an incredible assortment 
of tatters. Both his hands were over his heart, 
clenching fistfuls of bloody rags, and on his face 
was an expression of extreme surprise. It was as 
though death were the last person he had expected 
to meet. Ortho thought it comical. 


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299 


“What else did you expect to find, jackal—at this 
gay trade?” he sneered, swept his torch round the 
room—and prickled. 

In the shadow between the bed end and the wall 
he had seen something, somebody, move. 

He stepped cautiously towards the bed end, sword 
point forwards, on guard. “Who’s there?” 

No answer. He lowered his torch. It was a 
woman, crouched double, swathed in a soiled haik, 
nothing but her eyes showing. Ortho grunted. An¬ 
other horse-faced mountain drudge, work-scarred, 
weather-coarsened I 

“Stand up!” he ordered. She did not move. ‘‘Do 
you hear?” he snapped and made a prick at her 
with his sword. 

She sprang up and at the same moment flung her 
haik back. Ortho started, amazed. The girl be¬ 
fore him was no more than eighteen, dark-skinned, 
slender, exquisitely formed. Her thick raven hair 
was bound with an orange scarf; across her fore¬ 
head was a band of gold coins and from her ears 
hung coral earrings. She wore two necklaces, one 
of fretted gold with fish-shaped pieces dangling from 
it, and a string of black beads such as are made 
of pounded musk and amber. Her wrists and ankles 
were loaded with heavy silver bangles. Intricate 
henna designs were traced halfway up her slim 
hands and feet, and from wrist to shoulder patterns 
had been scored with a razor and left to heal. Her 
face was finely chiseled, the nose narrow and curved. 


300 


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the mouth arrogant, the brows straight and stormy, 
and under them her great black eyes smoldered with 
dangerous fires. 

Ortho sucked in his breath. This burning, lance- 
straight, scornful beauty came out of no hill village. 
An Arab this, daughter of whirlwind horsemen, 
darling of some desert sheik, spoil of the Tamgrout 
caravans. 

Well, she was his spoil now. The night’s work 
would pay after all. All else aside, there was at 
least a hundred ducats of jewelry on her. He would 
strip it now before the others came and demanded 
a share. 

“Come here,” he said, dropping his sword. 

The girl slouched slowly towards him, pouting, 
chin tilted, hands clasped behind her, insolently obe¬ 
dient; stopped within two feet of him and stabbed 
for his heart with all her might. 

Had she struck less quickly and with more stealth 
she might have got home. Penhale’s major asset 
was that, with him, thought and action were 
one. He saw an instantaneous flicker of steel and 
instantaneously swerved. The knife pierced the 
sleeve of his kaftan below the left shoulder. He 
grabbed the girl by the wrist and wrenched it back 
till she dropped the knife, and as he did this, with 
her free hand she very nearly had his own knife out 
of his sash and into him—very nearly. But that 
the handle caught in a fold he would have been done. 
He secured both her wrists and held her at arm’s 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


301 


length. She ground her little sharp teeth at him, 
quivered with rage, blazed murder with her eyes. 

“Soldier,” said Ortho to the dead man behind 
him, “now I know why you look astonished. 
Neither you nor I expected to meet death in so 
pretty a guise.” 

He spoke to the girl. “Be quiet, beauty, or I 
will shackle you with your own bangles. Will you 
be sensible?” 

For answer the girl began to struggle, tugged at 
his grasp, wrenched this way and that with the 
frantic abandon of a wild animal in a gin. She was 
as supple as an eel and, for all her slimness, mar¬ 
velously strong. Despite his superior weight and 
power. Ortho had all he could do to hold her. But 
her struggles were too wild to last and at length 
exhaustion calmed her. Ortho tied her hands with 
the orange scarf and began to take her jewelry off 
and cram it in his pouch. While he was thus en¬ 
gaged she worked the scarf loose with her teeth and 
made a dive for his eyes with her long finger nails. 

He tied her hands behind her this time and 
stooped to pry the anklets off. She caught him on 
the point of the jaw with her knee, knocking him 
momentarily dizzy. He tied her feet with a strip 
of her haik. She leaned forward and bit his cheek, 
bit with all her strength, bit with teeth like needles, 
nor would she let go till he had well-nigh choked her. 
He cursed her savagely, being in considerable pain. 
She shook with laughter. He gagged her after that. 


302 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


worked the last ornament off, picked up his sword 
and prepared to go. His torch had spluttered out, 
but moonlight poured through the open door and 
he could see the girl sitting on the floor, gagged and 
bound, murdering him with her splendid eyes. 

^‘Msa I kheir, lallaP* said he, making a mock 
salaam. She snorted, defiant to the end. Ortho 
strode out and along the gallery. His cheek stung 
like fire, blood was trickling from the scratches, his 
jaw was stiff from the jolt it had received. What 
a she-devil!—but, by God, what spirit! He liked 
women of spirit, they kept one guessing. She re¬ 
minded him somewhat of Schems-ed-dah back in 
Sallee, the same rapier-tempering and blazing pas¬ 
sion, desert women both. When tame they were 
wonderful, without peer—^when tame. He hesi¬ 
tated, stopped and fingered his throbbing cheek. 

“What that she-devil would like to do would be 
to cut me to pieces with a knife—slowly,’’ he mut¬ 
tered, He turned about, feeling his jaw. “Cut me 
to pieces and throw ’em to the dogs.” He walked 
back. “She would do it gladly, though they did the 
same to her afterwards. Tame that sort! Never 
in life.” He stepped back into the room and picked 
the girl up in his arms. “Wild-cat, I’m going to 
attempt the impossible,” said he. 

Even then she struggled. 

The town was afire, darting tongued sheets of 
flame and jets of sparks at the placid moon. Sol¬ 
diers were everywhere, shouting, smashing, pouring 


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303 


through the alleys over the bodies of the defenders. 
As Ortho descended the stairs a party of Sudanese 
broke into the courtyard; one of them took a wild 
shot at him. 

^^MakhzeniP* he shouted and they stood back. 

A giant negro petty officer with huge loops of 
silver wire in his ears held a torch aloft. Mood 
from a scalp wound smeared his face with a crimson 
glaze. At his belt dangled four fowls and a severed 
head. 

“Hey—the Kaid Ingliz,” he said and tapped the 
head. “The rebel Basha; I slew him myself at the 
breach. The Sari should reward me handsomely. 
El Hamdoulillah!” He smiled like a child expec¬ 
tant of sweetmeats. “What have you there, Kaid?” 

“A village wench merely.” 

“Fair?” 

“So so.” 

The negro spat. “Bah I they are as ugly as their 
own goats, but”—he grinned, knowing Ortho’s 
weakness—“she may fetch the price of a black 
horse—eh, Kaid?” 

“She may,” said Ortho. 


CHAPTER XXII 


T WO days later the force struck camp, leav¬ 
ing the town behind them a shell of black¬ 
ened ruins, bearing on lances before them 
the heads of thirty prominent citizens as a sign 
that Caesar is not lightly denied his tribute. 

They streamed northeast through the defiles, a 
tattered rabble, a swarm of locusts, eating up the 
land as they went. The wounded were jostled along 
in rough litters, at the mercy of camp barbers and 
renegade quacks; the majority died on the way and 
were thankful to die. The infantry straggled for 
miles (half rode donkeys) and drove before them 
cattle, sheep, goats and a few women prisoners. 
What with stopping to requisition and pillage they 
progressed at an average of twelve miles a day. 
Only among the negroes and the cavalry was there 
any semblance of march discipline, and then only 
because the general kept them close about him as 
protection against his other troops. 

Beside Ortho rode the Arab girl, her feet 
strapped under the mule’s belly. Twice she tried 
to escape—once by a blind bolt into the foothills, 
once by a surer, sharper road. She had wriggled 
across the tent and pulled a knife out of its sheath 
with her teeth. Osman had caught her just as she 
304 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


305 


was on the point of rolling on it. Ortho had to 
tie her up at night and watch her all day long. 
Never had he encountered such implacable resolve. 
She was determined to foil him one way or the other 
at no matter what cost to herself. He had always 
had his own way with women and this failure irri¬ 
tated him. He would stick it as long as she, he 
swore—and longer. 

Osman Baki was entertained. He watched the 
contest with twinkling china blue eyes—his mother 
had been a Georgian slave and he was as fair as a 
Swede. 

“She will leave you—somehow,” he warned. 

“For whom? For what?” Ortho exclaimed. “If 
she slips past me the infantry will catch her, or 
some farmer who will beat her life out. Why does 
she object to me? I have treated her kindly—as 
kindly as she will allow.” 

Osman twirled his little yellow mustache. “Truly, 
but these people have no reason, only a mad pride. 
One cannot reason with madness, Kaid. Oh, I know 
them. When I was in the service of the deys . . .” 

He delivered an anecdote from his unexampled 
repertoire proving the futility of arguing with a 
certain class of Arab with anything more subtle than 
a bullet. 

“Sell her in Morocco,” he advised. “She is 
pretty, will fetch a good sum.” 

“No, Fm going to try my hand first,” said Ortho 
stubbornly. 


306 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“You’ll get it bitten,” said the Turk, eying the 
telltale marks on Ortho’s face with amusement. 
“For my part I prefer a quiet life—in the home.” 

They straggled into Morocco City ten days later 
to find the Sultan in residence for the winter, build¬ 
ing sanctuaries and schools with immense energy. 

Ortho hoped for the governorship of an outlying 
post where he would be more or less his own master, 
get some pig-hunting and extort backsheesh from 
the country folk under his protection; but it was 
not to be. He was ordered to quarter his stalwarts 
in the kasba and join the Imperial Guard. Having 
been in the Guard before at Mequinez, having in¬ 
fluence in the household and getting a wind-fall in 
the way of eight months’ back pay, he contrived to 
bribe himself into possession of a small house over¬ 
looking the Aguedal Gardens, close to the Ahmar 
Gate. 

There he installed the Arab girl and a huge old 
negress to look after her. 

Then he set to and gave his unfortunate men the 
stiffening of their lives. 

He formed his famous black horses into one 
troop, graded the others by colors and drilled the 
whole all day long. 

Furthermore, he instituted a system of groom¬ 
ing and arm-cleaning hitherto unknown in the Mo¬ 
roccan forces—all on the Fleischmann recipe. Did 
his men show sulks, he immediately up-ended and 
bastinadoed them. This did not make him popular, 


THE OWLS^ HOUSE 


307 


but Osman Baki supported him with bewildered 
loyalty and he kept the mokadem and the more des¬ 
perate rascals on his side by a judicious distribu¬ 
tion of favors and money. Nevertheless he did not 
stroll abroad much after dark and then never un¬ 
attended. 

They drilled in the Aguedal, on the bare ground 
opposite the powder house, and acquired added 
precision from day to day. Ortho kept his eye on 
the roof of the powder house. 

For two months this continued and Ortho grew 
anxious. What with household expenses and con¬ 
tinued douceurs to the mokadem his money was run¬ 
ning out and he was sailing too close to the wind 
to try tricks with his men’s rations and pay at 
present. 

Just when things were beginning to look desperate 
a party appeared on the roof of the powder house, 
which served the parade ground as a grand-stand. 

Ortho, ever watchful, saw them the moment they 
arrived, brought his command into squadron col¬ 
umn, black troop to the fore, and marched past 
underneath. 

They made a gallant show and Ortho knew it. 
Thanks to the grooming, his horses were looking 
fifty per cent better than any other animals in the 
Shereefian Army; the uniformity added another 
fifty. The men knew as well as he did who was look¬ 
ing down on them, and went by, sitting stiff, every 
eye fixed ahead. 


308 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

The lusty sun set the polished hides aglow, the 
burnished lance-heads a-glitter. The horses, fretted 
by sharp stirrups, tossed their silky manes, whisked 
their streaming tails. The wind got into the bur¬ 
nooses and set them flapping and billowing in creamy 
clouds; everything was in his favor. Ortho wheeled 
the head of his column left about, formed squadron 
line on the right and thundered past the Magazine, 
his shop-window troop nearest the spectators, shout¬ 
ing the imperial salute, Allah y harek Amer SidiF* 
A good line too, he congratulated himself, as good 
as any Makhzen cavalry would achieve in this world. 
If that didn’t work nothing would. It worked. 

A slave came panting across the parade ground 
summoning him to the powder house at once. 

The Sultan was leaning against the parapet, suck¬ 
ing a pomegranate and spitting the pips at his Grand 
Vizier, who pretended to enjoy it. The fringes of 
the royal jellab were rusty with brick dust from the 
ruins of Bel Abbas, which Mahomet was restor¬ 
ing. Ortho did obeisance and got a playful kick in 
the face; His Sublimity was in good humor. 

He recognized Ortho immediately. “Ha! The 
lancer who alone defied the Bou Khari, still alive! 
Young man, you must indeed be of Allah beloved!” 
He looked the soldier up and down with eyes humor¬ 
ous and restless. “What is your rank?” 

“Kaid Mia, Sidi.” 

“Hum!—thou art Kaid Rahal now, then.” He 
turned on the Vizier. “Tell El Mechouar to let 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 309 

him take what horses he chooses; he knows how to 
keep them. Go!” 

He flung the fruit rind at Ortho by way of dis¬ 
missal. 

Ortho gave his long-suffering men a feast that 
night with the last ready money in his possession. 
They voted him a right good fellow^—soldiers have 
short memories. 

He was on his feet now. As Kaid Rahal, with 
nominally a thousand cut-throats at his beck and 
nod, he would be a fool indeed if he couldn’t black¬ 
mail the civilians to some order. Also there was a 
handsome sum to be made by crafty manipulation 
of his men’s pay and rations. El Mechouar would 
expect his commission out of this, naturally, and 
sundry humbler folk—“big fleas have little fleas 
. . —but there would be plenty left. He was 
clear of the financial thicket. He went prancing 
home to his little house, laid aside his arms and 
burnoose, took the key from the negress, ran up¬ 
stairs and unlocked the room in which the Arab girl, 
Ourida, was imprisoned. It was a pleasant prison 
with a window overlooking the Aguedal, its miles 
of pomegranate, orange, and olive trees. It was the 
best room in the house and he had furnished it as 
well as his thin purse would afford, but to the desert 
girl it might have been a tomb. 

She sat all day staring out of the barred window, 
looking beyond the wide Haouz plain to where the 
snow peaks of the High Atlas rose, a sheer wall of 




310 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


sun-lit silver—and beyond them even. She never 
smiled, she never spoke, she hardly touched her 
food. Ortho in all his experience had encountered 
nothing like her. He did his utmost to win her 
over, brought sweetmeats, laughed, joked, retailed 
the gossip of the palace and the souks, told her • 
stories of romance and adventure which would have ' 
kept any other harem toy in shivers of bliss, took 
his gounibri and sang Romany songs, Moorish songs, ' 
English ballads, flowery Ottoman kasidas, ghazels 
and gulistdns, learned from Osman Baki, cursed her, v 
adored her. 

All to no avail; he might have been dumb, she r 
deaf. Driven desperate, he seized her in his arms; 
he had as well embraced so much ice. It was mad- , 
dening. Osman Baki, who watched him in the lines 
of a morning, raving at the men over trifles, twisted 
his yellow mustache and smiled. This evening, how¬ 
ever, Ortho was too full of elation to be easily re¬ 
pulsed. He had worked hard and intrigued steadily 
for this promotion. Three years before he had 
landed in Morocco a chained slave, now he was the 
youngest of his rank in the first arm of the service. 
Another few years at this pace and what might he 
not achieve? He bounded upstairs like a lad home 
with a coveted prize, told the girl of his triumph, 
striding up and down the room, flushed, laughing, 
smacking his hands together, boyish to a degree. 
He looked his handsomest, a tall, picturesque figure 
in the plum-colored breeches, soft riding boots, blue 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


311 


kaftan and scarlet tarboosh tilted rakishly on his 
black curls. The girl stole a glance at him from 
under her long lashes, but when he looked at her 
she was staring out of the window at the snow wall 
of the Atlas rose-flushed with sunset, and when he 
spoke to her she made no answer; he might as well 
have been talking to himself. But he was too full 
of his success to notice, and he rattled on and on, 
pacing the little room up and down, four strides each 
way. He dropped beside her, put his arm about her 
shoulders, drew her cold cheek to his flushed one. 

“Listen, my pearl,” he rhapsodized. “I have 
money now and you shall have dresses like rain¬ 
bows, a gold tiara and slave girls to wait on you, 
and when we move garrison you shall ride a white 
ambling mule with red trappings and lodge in a 
striped tent like the royal women. I am a Kaid 
Rahal now, do you hear? The youngest of any, 
and in the Sultan’s favor. I will contrive and 
scheme, and in a few years . . . the Standard!— 
eschkoun-i-araff And then, my honey-sweet, you 
shall have a palace with a garden and fountains. 
Hey, look!” 

He scooped in his voluminous breeches’ pockets, 
brought out a handful of trinkets and tossed them 
into her lap. The girl stared at him, then at the 
treasures, and drew a sharp breath. They were her 
own, the jewelry he had wrenched from her on that 
wild night of carnage three months before. 

“You thought I had sold them—eh?” he laughed. 


312 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“No, no, my dear; it very nearly came to it, but 
not quite. They are safe now and yours again— 
see?” 

He seized her wrists and worked the bangles on, 
snapped the crude black necklace round her neck 
and hung the elaborate gold one over it, kissed her 
full on the quivering mouth. “Yours again, for al¬ 
ways.” 

She ran the plump black beads through her fin¬ 
gers, her breathing quickened. She glanced at him 
sideways, shyly; there was an odd light in her eyes. 
She swayed a little towards him, then the corners 
of her mouth twitched and curved upwards in an 
adorable bow; she was smiling, smiling! He held 
out his arms to her and she toppled into them, bury¬ 
ing her face in his bosom. 

“My lord!” said she. 

The proud lady had surrendered at last! 

“Osman, Osman Baki, what now?” thought Or¬ 
tho and crushed her to him. 

The girl made a faint, pained exclamation and 
put her hand to her throat. 

“Did I hurt you, my own?” said Ortho, contrite. 

“No, my lord, but you have snapped my neck¬ 
lace,” she laughed. “It is nothing.” 

He picked up the black beads, wondering how 
he could have done it, and she put them down on 
the rug beside her. 

“It is a poor thing, but a great saint has blessed 
it. My king, take me in your arms again.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


313 


They sat close together while the rosy peaks 
faded out and the swift winter dusk filled the room, 
and he told her of the great things he would do. 
Elation swept him up. Everything seemed possible 
now with this slim, clinging beauty to solace and 
Inspire him. He would trample on and on, scat¬ 
tering opposition like straw, carving his own road, 
a captain of destiny. She believed In his bravest 
boasts. Her lord had but to will a thing and it 
was done. Who could withstand her lord? “Not 
I, not I,” said she. “Hearken, tall one. I said 
to my heart night and day, ‘Hate this Roumi askar, 
hate him, hate him !’•—but my heart would not listen, 
it was wiser than I.” 

She nestled luxuriously In his arms, crooning en¬ 
dearments, melting and passionate, sweeter than 
honey in the honey-comb. It grew dark and cold. 
He went to the door and called for the brazier. 

“And tea,” Ourida added. “I would serve you 
with tea, my heart’s joy.” 

The negress brought both. 

Ourida rubbed her head against his shoulder. 
“Sweetmeats?” she cooed. 

He jerked his last blanquils to the slave with the 
order. 

Ourida squatted cross-legged on a pile of cushions 
and poured out the sweet mint tea, handed him his 
cup with a mock salaam. He did obeisance as be¬ 
fore a Sultana, and she rippled with delight. They 
made long complimentary speeches to each other 


314 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


after the manner of the court, played with each 
other’s hands, were very childish and merry. 

Ourida pressed a second cup of tea on him. He 
drank it off at a gulp and lay down at her side. 

“Rest here and be comfortable,” said she, draw¬ 
ing his head to her. 

“Tell me again about that battle with the Bou 
Khari.” 

He told her in detail, omitting the salient fact 
that his horse had bolted with him, though, in truth, 
he had almost forgotten it himself by now. 

“All alone you faced them! Small wonder Sidi 
Mahomet holds thee in' high honor, my hero. And 
the fight in the Rif?” 

He told her all about the guerrilla campaign 
among the rock fastnesses of the Djebel Tiziren, of 
a single mountaineer with a knife crawling through 
the troop-lines at night and sixty ham-strung horses 
in the morning. 

Ourida was entranced. “Go on, my lord, go on.” 

Ortho went on. He didn’t want to talk. He 
was most comfortable lying out on the cushions, his 
head on the girl’s soft lap. Moreover, his heavy 
day in the sun and wind had made him extraordinar¬ 
ily drowsy—^but he went on. He told her of mas¬ 
sacres and burnt villages, of ambushes and escapes, 
of three hundred rebels rising out of a patch of 
cactus no bigger than a sheep pen and rushing in 
among the astonished lancers, screaming and slash¬ 
ing. The survivors of that affair had fled up the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


315 


opposite hillside flat on their horses’ necks and him¬ 
self among the foremost, but he did not put it that 
way; he said he “organized the retreat.” 

“More,” breathed Ourida. 

He began to tell her of five fanatics with several 
muskets and quantities of ammunition shut up in a 
saint’s shrine and defying the entire Shereefian 
forces for two days, but before he had got halfway 
his voice tailed off into silence. 

“You do not speak, light of my life?” 

“I am sleepy—and comfortable, dearest.” 

Ourida smoothed his cheek. “Sleep then with thy 
slave for pillow.” 

He felt her lips touch his forehead, her slim fin¬ 
gers running through his curls, through and through 
. . . through . . . and . . . through . . . 

“My lord sleeps?” came Ourida’s voice from 
miles away, thrilling strangely. 

“Um . . . ah! . . . almost,” Ortho mumbled. 
“Where . . . you . . . going?” She had slipped 
from under him; he had an impulse to grasp her 
hand, then felt it was too much trouble. 

“Listen, Said el Ingliz,” said Ourida in his ear, 
enunciating with great clarity. “You are going to 
sleep {orevery you swine 1” 

He forced his weighted lids apart. She was bend¬ 
ing right over him. He could see her face by the 
glow of the brazier, transformed, exultant; her teeth 
were locked together and showing; her eyes glit¬ 
tered. 


316 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


^^Forever/* she hissed. “Do you hear me?” 

“Drugged, by God!” thought Ortho. “Drugged, 
poisoned, fooled like a fat palace eunuch!” 

Fury came upon him. He fought the drowse with 
all the power that was in him, sat up, fell back again. 

The girl laughed shrilly. 

He tried to shout for help, for the negress, 
achieved a whisper. 

“She has gone for sweetmeats and will loiter 
hours,” mocked the girl. “Call louder; call up your 
thousand fine lancers. Oh, great Kaid Rahal, Stand¬ 
ard Bearer to be!” 

“Osman—they will crush you . . . between . . . 
stones . . . for this,” he mumbled. 

She shook her head. “No, great one, they will 
not catch me. I have three more poisoned beads.” 
She held up the remnant of her black necklace. 

So that was how it was done. In the tea. By 
restoring her the trinkets he had compassed his own 
end. His eyelids drooped, he was away, adrift again 
in that old dream he had had, rocking in the smug¬ 
gler’s boat under Black Cam, floating through star¬ 
trembling space, among somber continents of cloud, 
a wraith borne onwards, downwards on streaming 
air-ways into everlasting darkness. 

“Great Lord of lances,” came a whisper out of 
nowhere. “When thou art in Gehenna thou wilt 
remember me, thy slave.” 

He fought back to consciousness, battled with 
smothering wraps of swansdown, through fogs of 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


317 


choking gray and yellow, through pouring waters of 
oblivion, came out sweating into the light, saw 
through a haze a shadow girl bending over him, the 
red glimmer of the brazier. 

With an immense effort he lifted his foot into the 
coals, bit hard into his under-lip. “Not yet, not 
yet!” 

The girl displayed amusement. “Wouldst bum 
before thy time ? Burn on. Thou wilt take no more 
women of my race against their wish, Kaid—or any 
other women—though methinks thy lesson is learned 
overlate. 

“Why fight the sleep, Roumif It will come, it 
will come. The Rif herb never fails.” On she went 
with her bitter raillery, on and on. 

But Ortho was holding his own. He was his 
mother’s son and had inherited all her marvelous 
vitality. The pain in his burnt foot was counteract¬ 
ing the drowse, sweat was pouring out of him. The 
crisis was past. Could he but crawl to the door? 
Not yet; in a minute or two. That negress must 
be back soon. He bit into his bleeding lip again, 
closed his eyes. The girl bent forward eagerly. 

“It is death, Kaid. Thou art dying, dying!” 

“No, nor shall I,” he muttered, and instantly re¬ 
alized his mistake. 

She drew back, startled, and swooped at him 
again. 

“Open your eyes!” She forced his lids up. 

“Failed!” 


318 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Failed!” Ortho repeated. 

“Bah! there are other means,” she snarled, 
jumped up, flitted round the room, stood transfixed 
in thought in the center, both hands to her cheeks, 
laughed, tore off her orange scarf and dropped on 
her knees beside him. 

“Other means, Kaid.” She slipped the silk loop 
round his neck, knotted it and twisted. 

She was going to strangle him, the time-hallowed 
practice of the East. He tried to stop her, lifted 
his heavy hands, but they were powerless, like so 
much dead wood. He swelled his neck muscles, but 
it was useless; the silk was cutting in all round, a 
red-hot wire. He had a flash picture of Osman Baki 
standing over his body, wagging his head regretfully 
and saying, “I said so,” Osman Baki with the Owls’ 
House for background. It was all over; the girl had 
waited and got him in the end. Even at that mo¬ 
ment he admired her for it. She had spirit; never 
had he seen such spirit. Came a pang of intolerable 
pain, his eyeballs were starting out, his head was 
bursting open—and then the tension at his throat 
inexplicably relaxed. 

Ortho rolled over, panting and retching, and as 
he did so heard footsteps on the stairs. 

A fist thumped on the door, a voice cried, “Kaid! 
Kaid!” and there was Osman Baki. 

He peered into the room, holding a lantern be¬ 
fore him. “Kaid, are you there? Where are you? 
There is a riot of Draouia in the Djeema El Fna; 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 319 

two troops to go out. Oh, there you are— Bismil- 
lah! What is this?” 

He sprang across to where Ortho lay and bent 
over him. 

“What is the matter? Are you ill? What is 
it?” 

“Nothing,” Ortho croaked. “Trying hasheesh 
. . . took too much . . . nothing at all. See to 
troops yourself . . . go now.” He coughed and 
coughed. 

“Hasheesh!” The Turk sniffed, stared at him 
suspiciously, glanced round the room, caught sight 
of the girl and held up the lantern. 

“Ha-ha 1” 

The two stood rigid eye to eye, the soldier with 
chin stuck forward, every hair bristling, like a mas¬ 
tiff about to spring, the girl unflinching, three beads 
of her black necklace in her teeth. 

“Ha-ha I” Osman put the lantern deliberately on 
the ground beside him and stepped forward, 
crouched double, his hands outstretched like claws. 
“You snake,” he muttered. “You Arab viper. I’ll 

. . . ni . . .” 

Ortho hoisted himself on his elbow. The girl 
was superb! So slight and yet so defiant. “Os¬ 
man,” he rasped, “Osman, friend, go! The riot! 
Go, it is an order!” 

The Turk stopped, stood up, relaxed, turned 
slowly about and picked up the lantern. He looked 
at Ortho, walked to the door, hesitated, shot a blaz- 


320 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ing glance at the girl, gave his mustache a vicious 
tug and went out. 

Silence but for the sputter of the brazier and 
the squeak of a mouse in the wall. 

Then Ortho heard the soft plud-plud of bare feet 
crossing the room and he knew the girl was standing 
over him. 

“Well, sweet,” he sighed, “come to complete your 
work? I am still in your hands.” 

She tumbled on her knees beside him, clasped his 
head to her breast and sobbed, sobbed, sobbed as 
though she would never stop. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


O rtho spent that winter in Morocco City, 
but in the spring was sent out with a force 
against the Zoua Arabs south of the Figvig 
Oasis, which had been taken by Muley Ismail and 
was precariously held by his descendants. They 
spent a lot of time and trouble dragging cannon 
up, to find them utterly useless when they got there. 
The enemy did not rely on strong places—they had 
none—but on mobility. They played a game of 
sting and run very exasperating to their opponents. 
It was like fighting a cloud of deadly mosquitoes. 
The wastage among the Crown forces was alarm¬ 
ing; two generals were recalled and strangled, and 
when Ortho again saw the Koutoubia minaret rising 
like a spear-shaft from the green palms of Morocco 
it was after an absence of ten months. 

Ourida met him in transports of joy, a two-month 
baby in her arms. It was a son, the exact spit and 
image of him, she declared, a person of already 
incredible sagacity and ferocious strength. A few 
years and he too would* be riding at the head of 
massed squadrons, bearing the green banner of the 
Prophet. 

Ortho, burned black with Saharan suns, weak with 
privation, sick of the reek of festering battlefields, 
321 


322 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


contemplated the tiny pink creature he had brought 
into the world and swore in his heart that this boy 
of his should follow peaceful ways. 

Fighting men were, as a class, the salt of the 
earth, simple-hearted, courageous, dog-loyal, dupes 
of the cunning and the cowardly. But apart from 
the companionship he had no illusions concerning 
the profession of arms as practiced in the Shereefian 
empire; it was one big bully maintaining himself 
in the name of God against a horde of lesser bullies 
(also invoking the Deity) by methods that would 
be deemed undignified in a pot-house brawl. He 
was in it for the good reason that he could not get 
out; but no son of his should be caught in the trap 
if he could help it. However, he said nothing of 
this to Ourida. He kissed her over and over and 
said the boy was magnificent and would doubtless 
make a fine soldier—^but there was time to think 
about that. 

He saw winter and summer through in Morocco, 
with the exception of a short trip on the Sultan’s 
bodyguard to Mogador, which port Mahomet had 
established to offset fractious Agadir and taken 
under his special favor. 

The sand-blown white town was built on the plans 
of an Avignon engineer named Cornut, with forti¬ 
fications after the style of Vauban. This gave it a 
pronounced European flavor which was emphasized 
by the number of foreign traders in its streets, 
drawn thither by the absence of custom. Also there 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


323 


was the Atlantic pounding on the Island, a tang of 
brine in the air and a sea wind blowing. Ortho had 
not seen the Atlantic since he left Sallee; homesick¬ 
ness gnawed at him. 

He climbed the Skala tower, and, sitting on a 
cannon cast for the third Philippe in 1595, watched 
the sun westering in gold and crimson and dreamed 
of the Owls’ House, the old Owls’ House lapped in 
its secret valley, where a man could live his life out 
in fullness and peace—and his sons after him. 

Walking back through the town, he met with a 
Bristol trader and turned into a wine shop. The 
Englishman treated him to a bottle of Jerez and 
the news of the world. Black bad it was. The tight 
little island had her back to the wall, fighting for 
bare life against three powerful nations at once. 
The American colonists were in full rebellion to 
boot, India was a cock-pit, Ireland sharpening pikes. 
General Burgoyne had surrendered at Saratoga. 
Eliott was besieged in Gibraltar. French, American 
and Spanish warships were thick as herring in the 
Channel; the Bristolian had only slipped through 
them by sheer luck and would only get back by a 
miracle. 

Taxation at home was crippling, and every 
mother’s son who had one leg to go upon and one 
arm to haul with was being pressed for service; they 
were even emptying the jails into the navy. He 
congratulated Ortho on being out of the country 
and harm’s way. Ortho had had a wild idea of 


324 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


getting a letter written and taken home to Eli by 
this man, but as he listened he reflected that it was 
no time now. Also, if he wanted to be bought out 
he would have to give minute instructions as to 
where the smuggling money was hidden. Letters 
were not inviolate; the bearer, and not Eli, might 
find that hidden money. And then there was Ourida 
and Said II. Said would become acclimatized, but 
England and Ourida were incompatible. He could 
not picture the ardent Bedouin girl—her bangles, 
silks and exotic finery—in the gray north; she would 
shrivel up like a frost-bitten lotus, pine and die. 

No, he was firmly anchored now. One couldn’t 
have everything; he had much. He drank up his 
wine, wished the Bristolian luck with his venture and 
rode back to the Diabat Palace. 

A week later he was home again in Morocco. 

Added means had enabled him to furnish the Bab 
Ahmar house very comfortably, Moorish fashion, 
with embroidered haitis on the walls, inlaid tables 
and plenty of well-cushioned lounges. The walls 
were thick; the rooms, though small, were high and 
airy; the oppressive heat of a Haouz summer did 
not unduly penetrate. Ourida bloomed. Said the 
younger progressed from strength to strength, wax¬ 
ing daily in fat and audacity. He was the idol of 
the odd-job boy and the two slave women (the 
household had increased with its master’s rank), of 
Osman Baki and Ortho’s men. The latter brought 
him presents from time to time: fruit stolen from 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


325 


the Aguedal, camels, lions and horses (chiefly 
horses) crudely carved and highly colored, and, 
when he was a year old, a small, shy monkey caught 
in the Rif, and later an old eagle with clipped wings 
and talons which, the donor explained, would de¬ 
fend the little lord from snakes and such-like. Con¬ 
cerning these living toys. Said II. displayed a de¬ 
vouring curiosity and no fear at all. When the 
monkey clicked her teeth at him he gurgled and 
pulled her tail till she escaped up the wistaria. He 
pursued the eagle on all fours, caught it sleeping one 
afternoon, and hung doggedly on till he had pulled 
a tail feather out. The bird looked dangerous, Said 
II. bubbled delightedly and grabbed for another 
feather, whereat the eagle retreated hastily to sulk 
among the orange shrubs. Was the door left open 
for a minute. Said II. was out of it on voyages of 
high adventure. 

Once he was arrested by the guard at the Ahmar 
Gate, plodding cheerfully on all fours for open 
country, and returned, kicking and raging, in the 
arms of a laughing petty oflicer. 

Ortho himself caught the youngster emerging 
through the postern onto the Royal parade ground. 

“He fears nothing,” Ourida exulted. “He will 
be a great warrior and slay a thousand infidels— 
the sword of Allah!—um-yum, my jewel.” 

That battered soldier and turncoat infidel, his 
father, rubbed his chin uneasily. “M’yes . . . per¬ 
haps. Time enough yet.” 


326 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


But there was no gainsaying the fierce spirit of 
the Arab mother, daughter of a hundred fighting 
sheiks; her will was stronger than his. The baby’s 
military education began at once. In the cool of 
the morning she brought Said 11. to the parade 
grouhd, perched him on the parapet of the Dar-el- 
Heni and taught him to clap his hands when the 
Horse went by. 

Once she hoisted him to his father’s saddle bow. 
The fat creature twisted both hands in the black 
stallion’s mane and kicked the glossy neck with his 
heels, gurgling with joy. 

“See, see,” said Ourida, her eyes like stars for 
radiance. “He grips, he rides. He will carry the 
standard in his day zahritT The soldiers laughed 
and lifted their lances. “Hail to the young Kaid!” 

Ortho, gripping his infant son by the slack of 
his miniature jellab, felt sick. Ourida and these 
other simple-minded fanatics would beat him yet 
with their fool ideas of glory, urge this crowing 
baby of his into hardship, terror, pain, possibly ago¬ 
nizing death. 

Parenthood was making a thoughtful man of him. 
He was no longer the restless adventurer of two 
years ago, looking on any change as better than 
none. He grudged every moment away from the 
Bab Ahmar, dreaded the spring campaign, the sep¬ 
aration it would entail, the chance bullet that might 
make it eternal. 

His ambition dimmed. He no longer wanted 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


327 


power and vast wealth, only enough to live com¬ 
fortably on with Ourida and young Said just as 
he was. Promotion meant endless back-stair in¬ 
trigues; he had no taste left for them and had other 
uses for the money and so fell out of the running. 

A Spanish woman in the royal harem, taking ad¬ 
vantage of her temporary popularity with Ma¬ 
homet, worked her wretched little son into position 
over Penhale’s head and over him went a fat Moor, 
Yakoub Ben Ahmed by name, advanced by the 
offices of a fair sister, also in the seraglio. Neither 
of these heroes had more than a smattering of mil¬ 
itary lore and no battle experience whatever, but 
Ortho did not greatly care. Promotion might be 
rapid in the Shereefian army, but degradation was 
apt to be instantaneous—the matter of a sword 
flash. He had risen as far as he could rise with 
moderate safety and there he would stop. Security 
was his aim nowadays, a continuance of things as 
they were. 

For life went by very happily in the little house 
by the Bab Ahmar, pivoting on Said II. But in the 
evening, when that potential conqueror had ceased 
the pursuit of the monkey and eagle and lay locked 
in sleep, Ourida would veil herself, wind her haik 
about her and go roaming into the city with Ortho. 
She loved the latticed souks with their displays of 
silks, jewelry and leather work; the artificers with 
their long muskets, curved daggers, velvet scab- 
barded swords and pear-shaped powder flasks; the 


328 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


gorgeous horse-trappings at the saddlers’, but these 
could be best seen in broad daylight; in the evening 
there were other attractions. 

It was the Djeema-el-Fna that drew her, that 
great, dusty, clamorous fair-ground of Morocco 
where gather the story-tellers, acrobats and clowns; 
where feverish drums beat the sun down, assisted 
by the pipes of Aissawa snake charmers and the 
jingling ouds and cymbals of the Berber dancing 
boys; where the Sultan hung out the heads of trans¬ 
gressors that they might grin sardonically upon the 
revels. Ourida adored the Djeema-el-Fna. To the 
girl from the tent hamlet in the Sahara it was Life. 
She wept at the sad love stories, trembled at the 
snake charmers, shrieked at the crude buffoons, 
swayed in sympathy with the Berber dancers, be¬ 
sought Ortho for coin, and more coin, to reward 
the charming entertainers. She loved the varied 
crowds, the movement, the excitement, the din, but 
most of all she liked the heads. No evening on the 
Djeema was complete unless she had inspected these 
grisly trophies of imperial power. 

She said no word to Ortho, but nevertheless he 
knew perfectly well what was in her mind; in her 
mind she saw young Said twenty years on, spattered 
with infidel blood, riding like a tornado, serving his 
enemies even as these. 

Ferocious—she was the ultimate expression of 
ferocity—but knowing no mean she was also fero¬ 
cious in her love and loyalty; she would have given 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


329 


her life for husband or son gladly, rejoicing. Such 
people are difficult to deal with. Ortho sighed, but 
let her have her way. 

Often of an evening Osman Baki came to the 
house and they would sit in the court drinking Mal¬ 
aga wine and yarning about old campaigns, while 
Ourida played with the little ape and the old eagle 
watched for mice, pretending to be asleep. 

Osman talked well. He told of his boyhood’s 
home beside the Bosporus, of Constantinople, Bag¬ 
dad and Damascus with its pearly domes bubbling 
out of vivid greenery. Jerusalem, Tunis and Al¬ 
giers he had seen also and now the Moghreb, the 
“Sunset land” of the first Saracen invaders. One 
thing more he wanted to see and that was the 
Himalayas. He had heard old soldiers talk of them 
—propping the heavens. He would fill his eyes 
with the Himalayas and then go home to his gar¬ 
den in Rumeli Hissar and brood over his memories. 

Sometimes he would take the gounihri and sing 
the love lyrics of his namesake, or of Nedim, or 
“rose garden” songs he had picked up in Persia 
which Ourida thought delicious. And sometimes 
Ortho trolled his green English ballads, also favor¬ 
ably received by her, simply because he sang them, 
for she did not understand their rhythm in the least. 
But more often they lounged, talking lazily, three 
very good friends together, Osman sucking at the 
hookah, punctuating the long silences with shrewd 
comments on men and matters. Ortho lying at his 


330 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ease watching the brilliant African stars, drawing 
breaths of blossom-scented air wafted from the 
Aguedal, Ourida nestling at his side, curled up like 
a sleepy kitten. 

Summer passed and winter; came spring and with 
it, to Ortho’s joy, no prospect of a campaign for 
him. A desert marabout, all rags, filth and fervor, 
preached a holy war in the Tissant country, gather¬ 
ing a few malcontents about him, and Yakoub Ben 
Ahmed was dispatched with a small force to put a 
stop to it. There were the usual rumors of unrest 
in the south, but nothing definite, merely young 
bucks talking big. Ortho looked forward to another 
year of peace. 

He went in the Sultan’s train to Mogador for a 
fortnight in May, and at the end of June was sent 
to Taroudant, due east of Agadir. A trifling affair 
of dispatches. He told Ourida he would be back 
in no time and rode off cheerfully. 

His business in Taroudant done, he was on the 
point of turning home when he was joined by a 
kaid mia and ten picked men from Morocco bear¬ 
ing orders that he was to take them on to Tenduf, 
a further two hundred miles south, and collect over¬ 
due tribute. 

Ortho well knew what that meant. Tenduf was 
on the verge of outbreak, the first signal of which 
would be his, the tax collector’s head, on a charger. 
Had he been single he would not have gone to 
Tenduf—he would have made a dash for freedom 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 331 

—but now he had a wife in Morocco, a hostage for 
his fidelity. 

Seeking a public scribe, he dictated a letter to 
Curida and another to Osman Baki, commending 
her to his care should the worst befall, and rode 
on. 

The Basha of Tenduf received the Sultan’s envoy 
with the elaborate courtesy that is inherent in a 
Moor and signifieth nothing. He was desolated 
that the tribute was behindhand, enlarged on the 
difficulty of collecting it in a land impoverished by 
drought (which it was not), but promised to set 
to work immediately. In the meantime Ortho 
lodged in the kasba, ostensibly an honored guest, 
actually a prisoner, aware that the Basha was the 
ringleader of the offenders and that his own head 
might be removed at any moment. Hawk-faced 
sheiks, armed to the teeth, galloped in, conferred 
with* the Basha, galloped away again. If they 
brought any tribute it was well concealed. Time 
went by; Ortho bit his lip, fuming inwardly, but 
outwardly his demeanor was of polite indifference. 
Whenever he could get hold of the Basha he re¬ 
galed him with instances of Imperial wrath, of vil¬ 
lages burned to the ground, towns taken and put 
to the sword, men, women and children; lingering 
picturesquely on the tortures inflicted on unruly gov¬ 
ernors. 

“But why did Sidi do that?” the Basha would 
exclaim, turning a shade paler at the thought of 


332 


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his peer of Khenifra having all his nails drawn out 
and then being slowly sawn in half. 

“Why?” Ortho would scratch his head and look 
puzzled. “Why? Bless me if I know! Oh, yes, 
I believe there was some little hitch with the taxes.” 

“These walls make me laugh,” he remarked, 
walking on the Tenduf fortifications. 

The Governor was annoyed. “Why so? They 
are very good walls.” 

“As walls go,” Ortho admitted. “But what are 
walls nowadays? They take so long to build, so 
short a time to destroy. Why, our Turk gunners 
breached the Derunat walls in five places in an hour. 
The sole use for walls is to contain the defenders 
in a small space, then every bomb we throw inside 
does its work.” 

“Hum!” The Basha stroked his brindled beard. 
“Hum—but supposing the enemy harass you in the 
open?” 

Ortho shrugged his shoulders. “Then we kill 
them in the open, that is all. It takes longer, but 
they suffer more.” 

“It took you a long time at Figvig,” the Basha 
observed maliciously. 

“Not after we learned the way.” 

“And what is the way?” 

“We take possession of the wells and they die 
of thirst in the sands and save us powder. At Fig¬ 
vig there were many wells; it took time. Here—” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


333 


He swept his hand over the burning champagne and 
snapped his fingers. “Just that.” 

“Hum,” said the Basha and walked away deep in 
thought. Day after day came and went and Ortho 
was not dead yet. He had an idea that he was get¬ 
ting the better of the bluffing match, that the Basha’s 
nerve was shaking and he was passing it on. 

There came a morning when the trails were hazy 
with the dust of horsemen hastening in to Tenduf, 
and the envoy on the kasha tower knew that the 
crisis had arrived. 

It was over by evening. The tribute began to 
come in next day and continued to roll in for a 
week more. 

The Basha accompanied Ortho ten miles on his 
return journey, regretting any slight misconstruction 
that might have arisen and protesting his imperish¬ 
able loyalty. He trusted that his dear friend Said 
el Inglez would speak well of him to the Sultan and 
presented him with two richly caparisoned horses 
and a bag of ducats as a souvenir of their charming 
relations. 

Slowly went the train; the horses were heavy laden 
and the heat terrific. Ortho dozed in the saddle, 
impatient at the pace, powerless to mend it. He 
beguiled the tedious days, mentally converting the 
Basha’s ducats into silks and jewelry for Ourida. 
It was the end of August before he reached Tarou- 
dant. There he got word that the court had moved 


334 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


to Rabat and he was to report there. Other news 
he got also, news that sent him riding alone to 
Morocco City, night and day, as fast as driven 
horseflesh would carry him. 

He went through the High Atlas passes to 
Goundafa, then north across the plains by Tagadirt 
and Aguergour. From Aguergour on the road was 
crawling with refugees—^men, women, children, 
horses, donkeys, camels loaded with household 
goods staggering up the mifis valley, anywhere out 
of the pestilent city. They shouted warnings at the 
urgent horseman: “The sickness, the sickness I 
Thou art riding to thy death, lord!” 

Ortho nodded; he knew. It was late afternoon 
when he passed through Tameslouht and saw the 
Koutoubia minaret in the distance, standing serene, 
though all humanity rotted. 

He was not desperately alarmed. Plagues bred 
in the beggars’ kennels, not in palace gardens. It 
would have reached his end of the city last of all, 
giving his little family ample time to run. Osman 
Baki would see to it that Ourida had every con¬ 
venience. They were probably down at Dar el 
Beida reveling in the clean sea breezes, or at Rabat 
with the Court. He told himself he was not really 
frightened; nevertheless he did the last six miles 
at a gallop, passed straight through the Bab Ksiba 
into the kasba. There were a couple of indolent 
Sudanese on guard at the gate and a few more 
sprawling in the shadow of the Drum Barracks, but 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


335 


the big Standard Square was empty and so were the 
two further courts. 

He jumped off his horse at the postern and 
walked on. From the houses around came not a 
sound, not a move; in the street he was the only 
living thing. He knocked at his own door; no an¬ 
swer. Good! They had gone! 

The door swung open to his push and he stepped 
in, half relieved, half fearful, went from room to 
room to find them stripped bare. Ourida had man¬ 
aged to take all her belongings with her then. He 
wondered how she had found the transport. Osman 
Baki contrived it, doubtless. A picture flashed be¬ 
fore him of his famous black horse squadron trek¬ 
king for the coast burdened with Ourida’s furniture 
—a roll of haitis to this man, a cushion to that, a 
cauldron to another—and he laughed merrily. 

Where had they gone, he wondered—Safi, Dar el 
Beida, Mogador, Rabat? The blacks at the bar¬ 
racks might know; Osman should have left a mes¬ 
sage. He stepped out of the kitchen into the court 
and saw a man rooting the little orange trees out 
of their tubs. 

“Hey!” 

The man swung about, sought to escape, saw it 
was impossible and flung himself upon the ground 
writhing and sobbing for mercy. 

It was a beggar who sat at the Ahmar Gate with 
his head hidden in the hood of his haik (he was 
popularly supposed to have no face), a supplicating 


336 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


claw protruding from a bundle of foul rags and a 
muffled voice wailing for largesse. Ortho hated the 
loathly beast, but Ourida gave him money—‘“in the 
name of God.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Great lord, have mercy in the name of Sidi Ben 
Youssef the Blest, of Abd el Moumen and Muley 
Idriss,” he slobbered. “I did nothing, lord, noth¬ 
ing. I thought you had gone to the south and would 
not return to . . . to . . . this house. Spare me, 
O amiable prince.” 

“And why should I not return to this house?” 
said Ortho. 

The beggar hesitated. “Muley, I made sure 
... I thought ... it was not customary . . . 
young men do not linger in the places of lost 
love.” 

“Dog,” said Ortho, suddenly cold about the heart, 
“what do you mean?” 

“Surely the Raid knows?” There was a note of 
surprise in the mendicant’s voice. 

“I know nothing; I have been away . . . the lalla 
Ourida ?” 

The beggar locked both hands over his head and 
squirmed in the dust. “Raid, Raid ... the will of 
Allah.” 

The little court reeled under Ortho’s feet, a film 
like a heat wave rose up before his eyes, everything 
went blurred for a minute. Then he spoke quite 
calmly: 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


337 


*‘Why did she not go away?” 

‘‘She had no time, lord. The little one, thy son, 
took the sickness first; she stayed to nurse him and 
herself was taken. But she was buried with honor, 
Kaid; the Turkish officer buried her with honor in 
a gay bier with tholbas chanting. I, miserable that 
I am, I followed also—afar. She was kind to the 
poor, the lalla Ourida.” 

“But why, why didn’t Osman get them both away 
before the plague struck the palace?” Ortho mut¬ 
tered fiercely, more to himself than otherwise, but 
the writhing rag heap heard him and answered: 

“He had no time, Muley. The kasba was the 
first infected.” 

“The first! How?” 

“Yakoub Ben Ahmed brought many rebel heads 
from Tissant thinking to please Sidi. They stank 
and many soldiers fell sick, but Yakoub would not 
throw the heads away—it was his first command. 
They marched into the kasba with drums beating, 
sick soldiers carrying offal.” 

Ortho laughed mirthlessly. So the dead had their 
revenge. 

“Where is the Turk officer now?” he asked pres¬ 
ently. “Rabat?” 

“No, Muley—he too took the sickness tending 
thy lancers.” 

Ortho walked away. All over, all gone—^wife, 
boy, faithful friend. Ourida would not see her son 
go by at the proud head of a regiment, nor Osman 


338 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


review his memories in his vineyard by the Bosporus. 
All over, all gone, the best and truest. 

Turning, he flung a coin at the beggar. “Go 
. . . leave me.” 

Dusk was flooding the little court, powder blue 
tinged with the rose-dust of sunset. A pair of gray 
pigeons perched on the parapet made their love coo- 
ings and fluttered away again. From the kasba 
minaret came the boom of the muezzin. High in 
the summer night drifted a white petal of a moon. 

Ortho leaned against a pillar listening. The 
chink of anklets, the plud, plud of small bare feet. 

“Said, my beloved, is it you? Tired, my heart’s 
dear? Rest your head here, lord; take thy ease. 
Thy fierce son is asleep at last; he has four teeth 
now and the strength of a lion. He will be a great 
captain of lances and do us honor when we are old. 
Your arm around me thus, tall one . . . aie, now 
am I content beyond all women . . 

From twilight places came the voice of Osman 
Baki and the subdued tinkle of the gounibri. “Allah 
has been good to me. I have seen many wonders— 
rivers, seas, cities and plains, fair women, brave 
men and stout fighting, but I would yet see the 
Himalayas. After that I will go home where I was 
a boy. Listen while I sing you a song of my own 
country such as shepherds sing ...” 

Ortho’s head sank in his hands. All over now, 
all gone. . . . Something flapped in the shadows 
by the orange trees, flapped and hopped out into 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


339 


the central moonlight and posed there stretching 
its crippled wings. 

It was the old eagle disgustingly bloated. 

That alone remained, that and the loathly beggar, 
left alone in the dead city to their carrion orgy. A 
shock of revulsion shook Ortho. Ugh! 

He sprang up and, without looking round, strode 
out of the house and down the street to where his 
horse was standing. 

A puff of hot wind followed him, a furnace blast, 
foul with the stench of half-buried corpses in the 
big Mussulman cemetery outside the walls. Ugh! 

He kicked sharp stirrups into his horse and rode 
through the Ksiba Gate. 

“Fleeing from the sickness—eh?” sneered a 
mokaddem of Sudanese who could not fly. 

“No—ghosts,” said Ortho and turned his beast 
onto the western road. 

“The sea! The sea!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“T\ERISH me! Rot and wither my soul and 
eyes if it ain’t Sai'd!” exclaimed Captain 
Benjamin MacBride, hopping across the 
court, his square hand extended. 

“Said, my bully, where d’you hail from?” 

“I’m on the bodyguard at Rabat. The Sultan’s 
building there now. Skalas all round and seven 
new mosques are the order, I hear—we’ll all be 
carrying bricks soon. I rode over to see you.” 

“You ain’t looking too proud,” said MacBride; 
“sort of wasted-like, and God ha’ mercy. Flux?” 

Ortho shook his head. “No, but I’ve had my 
troubles, and”—indicating the sailor’s bandaged eye 
and his crutch—“so have you, it seems.” 

“Curse me, yes! Fell in with a fat Spanisher off 
Ortegal and mauled him down to a sheer hulk when 
up romps a brace of American ‘thirties’ and serves 
me cruel. If it hadn’t been for nightfall and a shift 
of wind I should have been a holy angel by now. 
Bad times, boy, bad times. Too many warships 
about, and all merchantmen sailing in convoy. I 
tell you I shall be glad when there’s a bit of peace 
and good-will on earth again. Just now everybody’s 
armed and it’s plaguy hard to pick up an honest 
living.” 


340 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


341 


‘‘Governor here, aren’t you?” Ortho inquired. 

“Aye. Soft lie-abed shore berth till my wounds 
heal and we can get back to business. Fog in the 
river?” 

“Thick; couldn’t see across.” 

“It’s lying on the sea like a blanket,” said Mac- 
Bride. “I’ve been watching it from my tower. 
Come along and see the girls. They’re all here 
save Tama; she runned away with a Gharb sheik 
when I was cruising—deceitful slut!—but I’ve got 
three new ones.” 

Ayesha and Schems-ed-dah were most welcoming. 
They had grown somewhat matronly, but otherwise 
time seemed to have left them untouched. As ever 
they were gorgeously dressed, bejeweled and painted 
up with carmine, henna and kohl. Fluttering and 
twittering about their ex-slave, they plied him with 
questions. He had been to the wars? Wounded? 
How many men had he killed? What was his rank? 
A kaid rahal of cavalry. . . . Ach! chut, chut! 
A great man! On the bodyguard! . . . Ay-ee! 
Was it true the Sultan’s favorite Circassians ate off 
pure gold? Was he married yet? 

When he told them the recent plague in Morocco 
had killed both his wife and son their liquid eyes 
brimmed over. No whit less sympathetic were the 
three new beauties; they wept in concert, though 
ten minutes earlier Ortho had been an utter stranger 
to them. Their hearts were very tender. A black 
eunuch entered bearing the elaborate tea utensils. 


342 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


As he turned to go, MacBride called pointing 

to the ground before him. 

The slave threw up his hands in protest. “Oh, 
no, lord, please.” 

“Kneel down,” the sailor commanded. “I’ll make 
you spring your ribs laughing. Said, my bonny. Give 
me your hand, Mohar.” 

“Lord, have mercy!” 

“Mercy be damned! Your hand, quick!” 

The piteous great creature extended a trembling 
hand, was grasped by the wrist and twisted onto his 
back. 

“Now, my pearls, my rosebuds,” said MacBride. 

The five little birds of paradise tucked their robes 
about them and surrounded the prostrate slave, tit¬ 
tering and wriggling their forefingers at him. Even 
before he was touched he screamed, but when the 
tickling began in earnest he went mad, doubling, 
screwing, clawing the air with his toes, shrieking 
like a soul in torment—which indeed he was. 

With the pearls and rosebuds it was evidently a 
favorite pastime; they tickled with diabolical cun¬ 
ning that could only come of experience, shaking 
with laughter and making sibilant noises the while— 
“Pish—piss-sh!” Finally when the miserable vic¬ 
tim was rolling up the whites of his eyes, mouthing 
foam and seemed on the point of throwing a fit, 
MacBride released him and he escaped. 

The captain wiped the happy tears from his re- 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


343 


maining eye and turned on Ortho as one recounting 
an interesting scientific observation. 

“Very thin-skinned for a Sambo. D’you know I 
believe he’d sooner take a four-bag at the gangway 
than a minute o’ that. I do, so help me; I believe 
he’d sooner be flogged. Vee-ry curious. Come up 
and I’ll show you my command.” 

The Atlantic was invisible from the tower, sheeted 
under fog which, beneath a windless sky, stretched 
away to the horizon in woolly white billows. Ortho 
had an impression of a mammoth herd of tightly 
packed sheep. 

“There’s a three-knot tide under that, sweeping 
south, but it don’t ’pear to move it much,” Mac- 
Bride observed. “I’ll warrant that bank ain’t higher 
nor a first-rate’s topgallant yard. I passed through 
the western squadron once in a murk like that there. 
Off Dungeness, it was. All their royals was sticking 
out, but my little hooker was trucks down, out o’ 
sight.” He pointed to the north. “Knitra’s over 
there, bit of a kasba like this. Er-rhossi has it; a 
sturdy fellow for a Greek, but my soul what a man 
to drink! Stayed here for a week and ’pon my 
conscience he had me baled dry in two days— me! 
Back there’s the forest, there’s pig . . . what are 
you staring at?” 

Ortho spun about guiltily. “Me? Oh, nothing, 
nothing, nothing. What were you saying? The 
forest . . 


344 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


He became suddenly engrossed in the view of the 
forest of Marmora. 

“What’s the matter? You look excited, like as 
if you’d seen something,” said MacBride suspi¬ 
ciously. 

“I’ve seen nothing,” Ortho replied. “What 
should I see?” 

“Blest if I know; only you looked startled.” 

“I was thinking.” 

“Oh, was you? Well, as I was saying, there’s a 
mort o’ pigs in there, wild ’uns, and lions too, by 
report, but I ain’t seen none. I’ll get some sport 
as soon as my leg heals. This ain’t much of a place 
though. Can’t get no money out of charcoal burn¬ 
ers, not if you was to torture ’em for a year. As 
God is my witness I’ve done my best, but the sooty 
vermin ain’t got any.” He sighed. “I shall be 
devilish glad when we can get back to our lawful 
business again. I’ve heard married men in England 
make moan about their ‘family responsibilities’—but 
what of me? I’ve got three separate families al¬ 
ready and two more on the way! What d’you say 
to that—eh?” 

Ortho sympathized with the much domesticated 
seaman and declared he must be going. 

“You’re in hell’s own hurry all to a sudden.” 

“I’m on the bodyguard, you know.” 

“Well, if you must that’s an end on’t, but I was 
hoping you’d stop for days and we’d have a chaw 
over old Jerry Gish—he-he! What a man! Say, 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


345 


would you have the maidens plague that Sambo once 
more before you go? Would you now? Give the 
word!” 

Ortho declined the pleasure and asked if Mac- 
Bride could sell him a boat compass. 

“I can sell you two or three, but what d’you want 
it for?” 

“I’m warned for the Guinea caravan,” Ortho ex¬ 
plained. “A couple of akkabaah have been lost 
lately; the guides went astray in the sands. I want 
to keep some check on them.” 

“I thought the Guinea force went out about 
Christmas.” 

“No, this month.” 

“Well, you know best, I suppose,” said the cap¬ 
tain and gave him a small compass, refusing pay¬ 
ment. 

“Come back and see us before you go,” he 
shouted as Ortho went out of the gate. 

“Surely,” the latter replied and rode southwards 
for Sallee at top speed, knowing full well that, un¬ 
less luck went hard against him, so far from seeing 
Ben MacBride again he would be out of the coun¬ 
try before midnight. 

While Ourida lived, life in Morocco had its com¬ 
pensations; with her death it had become insupport¬ 
able. He had ridden down to the sea filled with a 
cold determination to seize the’first opportunity of 
escape and, if none occurred, to make one. Plans 
had been forming in his mind of working north to 


346 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Tangier, there stealing a boat and running the 
blockade into beleaguered Gibraltar, some forty 
miles distant, a scheme risky to the point of fool¬ 
hardiness. But remain he would not. 

Now unexpectedly, miraculously, an opportunity 
had come. Despite his denials he had seen some¬ 
thing from MacBride’s tower; the upper canvas 
of a ship protruding from the fog about a mile and 
a half out from the coast, by the cut and the long 
coach-whip pennant at the main an Englishman. 
Just a glimpse as the royals rose out of a trough 
of the fog billows, just the barest glimpse, but quite 
enough. Not for nothing had he spent his boyhood 
at the gates of the Channel watching the varied 
traffic passing up and down. And a few minutes 
earlier MacBride had unwittingly supplied him with 
the knowledge he needed, the pace and direction 
of the tide. Ortho knew no arithmetic, but common 
sense told him that if he galloped he should reach 
Sallee two hours ahead of that ship. She had no 
wind, she would only drift. He drove his good 
horse relentlessly, and as he went decided exactly 
what he would do. 

It was dark when he reached the Bab Sebta, and 
over the low-lying town the fog lay like a coverlet. 

He passed through the blind town, leaving the 
direction to his horse’s instinct, and came out against 
the southern wall. Inquiring of an unseen pedes¬ 
trian, he learnt he was close to the Bab Djedid, put 
his beast in a public stable near by, detached one 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


347 


stirrup, and, feeling his way through the gate, 
struck over the sand banks towards the river. He 
came on it too far to the west, on the spit where 
it narrows opposite the Kasha Oudaia of Rabat; 
the noise of water breaking at the foot of the great 
fortress across the Bon Regreg told him as much. 

Turning left-handed, he followed the river back 
till he brought up against the ferry boats. They 
were all drawn up for the night; the owners had 
gone, taking their oars with them. “Damnation!” 
His idea had been to get a man to row him across 
and knock him on the head in midstream; it was 
for that purpose that he had brought the heavy 
stirrup. There was nothing for it now but to rout 
a man out—all waste of precious time! 

There was just a chance some careless boatman 
had left his oars behind. Quickly he felt in the 
skiffs. The first was empty, so was the second, the 
third and the fourth, but in the fifth he found what 
he sought. It was a light boat too, a private shallop 
and half afloat at that. What colossal luck! He 
put his shoulders to the stem and hove—and up rose 
a man. 

“Who’s that? Is that you, master?” 

Ortho sprang back. Where had he heard that 
voice before? Then he remembered; it was Puddi- 
combe’s. Puddicombe had not returned to Algiers 
after aU, but was here waiting to row “Sore Eyes” 
across to Rabat to a banquet possibly. 

“Who’s that?” 


348 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Ortho blundered up against the stem, pretending 
to be mildly drunk, mumbling in Arabic that he 
was a sailor from a trading felucca looking for his 
boat. 

“Well, this is not yours, friend,” said Puddi- 
combe. “Try down the beach. But if you take my 
advice you’ll not go boating to-night; you might 
fall overboard and get a drink of water which, by 
the sound of you, is not what thou art accustomed 
to.” He laughed at his own delightful wit. 

Ortho stumbled into the fog, paused and thought 
matters over. To turn a ferryman out might take 
half an hour. Puddicombe had the only oars on 
the beach, therefore Puddicombe must give them 
up. 

He lurched back again, steadied himself against 
the stem and asked the Devonian if he would put 
him off to his felucca, getting a flat refusal. Hic- 
cuping, he said there was no offense meant and 
asked Puddicombe if he would like a sip of fig 
brandy. He said he had no unsurmountable objec¬ 
tion, came forward to get it, and Ortho hit him 
over the head with the stirrup iron as hard as he 
could lay in. Puddicombe toppled face forwards out 
of the boat and lay on the sand without a sound or 
a twitch. 

“I’m sorry I had to do it,” said Ortho, “but you 
yourself warned me to trust nobody, above all a 
fellow renegado. I’m only following your own ad¬ 
vice. You’ll wake up before dawn. Good-by.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


349 


Pushing the boat off, he jumped aboard and 
pulled for the grumble of the bar. 

He went aground on the sand-spit, and rowing 
away from that very nearly stove the boat in on 
a jag of rock below the Kasha Oudaia. The corner 
passed, steering was simple for a time, one had 
merely to keep the boat pointed to the rollers. Over 
the bar he went, slung high, swung low, tugged on to 
easy water, and striking a glow on his flint and 
steel examined the compass. 

Thus occasionally checking his course by the 
needle he pulled due west. He was well ahead of 
the ship, he thought, and by getting two miles out 
to sea would be lying dead in her track. Before long 
the land breeze would be blowing sufficient to push 
the fog back, but not enough to give the vessel 
more than two or three knots; in that light shallop 
he could catch her easily, if she were within reason¬ 
able distance. 

Reckoning he had got his offing, he swung the 
boat’s head due north and paddled gently against 
the run of the tide. 

Time progressed; there was no sign of the ship 
or the land breeze that was to reveal her. For all 
he knew he might be four miles out to sea or one- 
half only. He had no landmarks, no means of 
measuring how far he had come except by experi¬ 
ence of how long it had taken him to pull a dinghy 
from point to point at home in Monks Cove; yet 
somehow he felt he was about right. 


350 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Time went by. The fog pressed about him in 
walls of discolored steam, clammy, dripping, heavy 
on the lungs. Occasionally it split, revealing dark 
corridors and halls, abysses of Stygian gloom; rolled 
together again. A hundred feet overhead it was 
clear night and starry. Where was that breeze? 

More time passed. Ortho began to think he had 
failed and made plans to cover the failure. It 
should not be difficult. He would land on the sands 
opposite the Bab Malka, overturn the boat, climb 
over the walls and see the rest of the night out 
among the Mussulman graves. In the morning he 
could claim his horse and ride into camp as if noth¬ 
ing had happened. As a slave he had been over 
the walls time and again; there was a crack in the 
bricks by the Bordj el Kbir. He didn’t suppose 
it was repaired; they never repaired anything. 
Puddicombe didn’t know who had hit him; there 
was no earthly reason why he should be suspected. 
The boat would be found overturned, the unknown 
sailor presumed drowned. Quite simple. Re¬ 
mained the Tangier scheme. 

By this time, being convinced that the ship had 
passed, he slewed the boat about and pulled in. 
The sooner he was ashore the better. 

The fog appeared to be moving. It twisted into 
clumsy spirals which sagged in the middle, puffed 
out cheeks of vapor, bulged and writhed, drifting 
to meet the boat. The land breeze was coming at 
last—an hour too late! Ortho pulled on, an ear 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


351 


cocked for the growl of the bar. There was noth¬ 
ing to be heard as yet; he must have gone further 
than he thought, but fog gagged and distorted sound 
in the oddest way. The spirals nodded above him 
like gigantic wraiths. Something passed overhead 
delivering an eerie screech. A sea-gull only, but it 
made him jump. Glancing at the compass, he found 
that he was, at the moment, pulling due south. He 
got his direction again and pulled on. Goodness 
knew what the tide had been doing to him. There 
might be a westward stream from the river which 
had pushed him miles out to sea. Or possibly he 
was well south of his mark and would strike the 
coast below Rabat. Oh, well, no matter as long 
as he got ashore soon. Lying on his oars, he lis¬ 
tened again for the bar, but could hear no murmur 
of it. Undoubtedly he was to the southward. That 
ship was halfway to Fedala by now. 

Then, quite clearly, behind a curtain of fog, an 
English voice chanted: “By the Deep Nine.” 

Ortho stopped rowing, stood up and listened. 
Silence, not a sound, not a sign. Fichus and twisted 
columns of fog drifting towards him, that was all. 
But somewhere close at hand a voice was calling 
soundings. The ship was there. All his fine cal¬ 
culations were wrong, but he had blundered aright. 

“Mark ten.” 

The voice came again, seemingly from his left- 
hand side this time. Again silence. The fog alleys 
closed once more, muffling sound. The ship was 


352 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


there, within a few yards, yet this cursed mist with 
its fool tricks might make him lose her altogether. 
He hailed with all his might. No answer. He 
might have been flinging his shout against banks of 
cotton wool. Again and again he hailed. 

Suddenly came the answer, from behind his back 
apparently. 

“Ahoy there . . . who are you?” 

“ ’Scaped English prisoner! English prisoner es¬ 
caped!” 

There was a pause; then, “Keep off there . . . 
none of your tricks.” 

“No tricks ... I am alone . . . alone** Ortho 
bawled, pulling furiously. He could hear the vessel 
plainly now, the creak of her tackle as she felt the 
breeze. 

“Keep off there, or I’ll blow you to bits.” 

“If you fire a gun you’ll call the whole town out,” 
Ortho warned. 

“What town?” 

“Sallee.” 

“Christ!” the voice ejaculated and repeated his 
words. “He says we’re off Sallee, sir.” 

Ortho pulled on. He could see the vessel by 
this, a blurred shadow among the steamy wraiths of 
mist, a big three-master close-hauled on the port 
tack. 

Said a second voice from aft: “Knock his bottom 
out if he attempts to board ... no chances.” 

“Boat ahoy,” hailed the first voice. “If you come 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 353 

alongside Fll sink you, you bloody pirate. Keep 
off.” ' 

Ortho stopped rowing. They were going to leave 
him. Forty yards away was an English ship—Eng¬ 
land. He was missing England by forty yards, 
England and the Owls’ House! 

He jerked at his oars, tugged the shallop directly 
in the track of the ship and slipped overboard. 
They might be able to see his boat, but his head 
was too small a mark. If he missed what he was 
aiming at he was finished; he could never regain that 
boat. It was neck or nothing now, the last lap, the 
final round. 

He struck to meet the vessel—only a few yards. 

She swayed towards him, a chuckle of water at 
her cut-water; tall as a cliff she seemed, towering 
out of sight. The huge bow loomed over him, 
poised and crushed downwards as though to ride 
him under, trample him deep. 

The sheer toppling bulk, the hiss of riven water 
snapped his last shred of courage. It was too much. 
He gave up, awaited the instant stunning crash 
upon his head, saw the great bowsprit rush across 
a shining patch of stars, knew the end had come 
at last, thumped against the bows and found him¬ 
self pinned by the weight of water, his head still 
up. His hands, his unfailing hands had saved him 
again; he had hold of the bob-stay I 

The weight of water was not really great, the 
ship had little more than steerage way. Darkness 


354 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


had magnified his terrors. He got across the stay 
without much difficulty, worked along it to the dol¬ 
phin-striker, thence by the martingale to the fo’csle. 

The look-out were not aware of his arrival until 
he was amongst them; they were watching the tiny 
smudge that was his boat. He noticed that they 
had round-shot ready to drop into it. 

“Good God!” the mate exclaimed. “Who are 
you?” 

“The man who hailed just now, sir.” 

“But I thought ... I thought you were in that 
boat.” 

“I was, sir, but I swam off.” 

“Good God!” said the mate again and hailed 
the poop. “Here’s this fellow come aboard after 
all, sir. He’s quite alone.” 

An astonished “How the devil?” 

“Swam, sir.” 

“Pass him aft.” 

Ortho was led aft. Boarding nettings were triced 
up and men lay between the upper deck guns girded 
with side arms. Shot were in the garlands and 
match-tubs filled, all ready. A well-manned, well- 
appointed craft. He asked the man who accompa¬ 
nied him her name. 

^^Elijah Impey. East Indiaman.” 

“Indiaman! Then where are we bound for?” 

“Bombay.” 

Ortho drew a deep breath. It was a long road 
home. 


CHAPTER XXV 


T he little Botallack man and Eli Penhale 
shook hands, tucked the slack of their wres¬ 
tling jackets under their left armpits and, 
crouching, approached each other, right hands ex¬ 
tended. 

The three judges, ancient wrestlers, leaned on 
their ash-plants and looked extremely knowing; 
they went by the title of “sticklers.” 

The wrestling ring was in a grass field almost 
under the shadow of St. Gwithian church tower. 
To the north the ridge of tors rolled along the sky¬ 
line, autumnal brown. Southward was the azure 
of the English Channel; west, over the end of land, 
the glint of the Atlantic with the Scilly Isles show¬ 
ing on the horizon, very faint, like small irregulari¬ 
ties on a ruled blue line. 

All Gwithian was present, men and women, girls 
and boys, with a good sprinkling of visitors from 
the parishes round about They formed a big ring 
of black and pink, dark clothes and healthy counte¬ 
nances. A good-natured crowd, bandying inter- 
parochial chaff from side to side, rippling with 
laughter when some accepted wit brought off a sally, 
yelling encouragement to their district champions. 

“Beware of en’s feet, Jan, boy. The old toad 
is brear foxy.” 


355 


356 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Scat en, Ephraim, my pretty old beauty! Grip 
to an’ scandalize en!” 

“Move round, sticklers! Think us can see 
through ’e? Think you’m made of glass?” 

“Up, Gwithian!” 

“Up, St. Levan!” 

At the feet of the crowd lay the disengaged wres¬ 
tlers, chewing blades of grass and watching the play. 
They were naked except for short drawers, and on 
their white skins grip marks flared red, bruises and 
long scratches where fingers had slipped or the 
rough jacket edges cut in. Amiable young stalwarts, 
smiling at each other, grunting approvingly at smart 
pieces of work. One had a snapped collar-bone, 
another a fractured forearm wrapped up in a hand¬ 
kerchief, but they kept their pains to themselves; it 
was all in the game. 

Now Eli and the little Botallack man were out 
for the final. 

Polwhele was not five feet six and tipped the 
beam at eleven stone, whereas Eli was five ten and 
weighed two stone the heavier. It looked as though 
he had only to fall on the miner to finish him, but 
such was far from the case. The sad-faced little 
tinner had already disposed of four bulky oppo¬ 
nents in workmanlike fashion that afternoon—^the 
collar bone was his doing. 

“Watch his eyes,” Bohenna had warned. 

That was all very well, but it was next to im¬ 
possible to see his eyes for the thick bang of hair 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 357 

that dangled over them like the forelock of a Shet¬ 
land pony. 

Polwhele clumsily sidled a few steps to the right. 
Eli followed him. Polwhele walked a few steps to 
the left. Again Eli followed. Polwhele darted 
back to the right, Eli after him, stopped, slapped 
his right knee loudly, and, twisting left-handed, 
grabbed the farmer round the waist and hove him 
into the air. 

It was cleverly done~the flick of speed after 
the clumsy walk, the slap on the knee drawing the 
opponent’s eye away—cleverly done, but not quite 
quick enough. Eli got the miner’s head in chancery 
as he was hoisted up and hooked his toes behind 
the other’s knees. 

Polwhele could launch himself and his burden 
neither forwards nor backwards, as the balance lay 
with Eli. The miner hugged at Eli’s stomach with 
all his might, jerking cruelly. Eli wedged his free 
arm down and eased the pressure somewhat. It 
was painful, but bearable. 

“Lave en carry ’e so long as thou canst, son,” 
came the voice of Bohenna. “Tire en out.” 

Polwhele strained for a forwards throw, tried 
a backwards twist, but the pull behind the knees 
embarrassed him. He began to pant. Thirteen 
stone hanging like a millstone about one’s neck at 
the end of the day was intolerable. He tried to 
work his head out of chancery, concluded it would 
only be at the price of his ears and gave that up. 


358 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Stay where ’e are,” shouted Bohenna to his 
protege. “T’eddn costin’ you nawthin’.” 

Eli stayed where he was. Polwhele’s breathing 
became more labored, sweat bubbled from every 
pore, a sinew in his left leg cracked under the strain. 
Once more he tried the forwards pitch, reeled, 
rocked and came down sideways. He risked a dis¬ 
located shoulder in so doing with the farmer’s added 
weight, but got nothing worse than a heavy jar. 
It was no fall; the two men rolled apart and lay 
panting on their backs. 

After a pause the sticklers intimated to them to 
go on. Once more they faced each other. The 
miner was plainly tired; the bang hung over his eyes, 
a sweat-soaked rag; his movements were sluggish. 
In response to the exhortations of his friends he 
shook his head, made gestures with his hands—fin¬ 
ished. 

Slowly he gave way before Eli, warding off grips 
with sweeps of his right forearm, refusing to come 
to a hold. St. Gwithian jeered at him. Botallack 
implored one more flash. He shook his head; he 
was incapable of flashing. Four heavy men he had 
put away to come upon this great block of brawn 
at the day’s end; it was too much. 

Eli could not bring him to grips, grew impatient 
and made the pace hotter, forcing the miner back¬ 
wards right round the ring. It became a boxing 
match between the two right hands, the one clutch¬ 
ing, the other parrying. Almost he had Polwhele; 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


359 


his fingers slipped on a fold of the canvas jacket. 
The spectators rose to a man, roaring. 

Polwhele ran backwards out of a grip and stum¬ 
bled. Eli launched out, saw the sad eyes glitter 
behind the draggles of hair and went headlong, fly¬ 
ing. 

The next thing he knew he was lying full length, 
the breath jarred out of him and the miner on top, 
fixed like a stoat. The little man had dived under 
him, tipped his thigh with a shoulder and turned 
him as he fell. It was a fair “back,” two shoulders 
and a hip down; he had lost the championship. 

Polwhele, melancholy as ever, helped him to his 
feet. 

“Nawthin’ broke. Squire? That’s fitty. You’ll 
beat me next year—could of this, if you’d waited.” 
He put a blade of grass between his teeth and stag¬ 
gered off to join his vociferous friends, the least 
jubilant of any. 

Bohenna came up with his master’s clothes. 
“ ’Nother time you’m out against a quick man go 
slow—make en come to you. Eddn no sense in 
playin’ tig with forked lightnin’. I shouted to ’e, 
but you was too furious to hear. Oh, well, ’tis done 
now, s’pose.” 

He walked away to hob-nob with the sticklers 
in the “Lamb and Flag,” to drink ale and wag their 
heads and lament on the decay of wrestling and 
manhood since they were young. 

Eli pulled on his clothes. One or two Monks 


360 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Covers shouted “Stout tussle, Squire,” but did not 
stop to talk, nor did he expect them to; he was 
respected in the parish, but had none of the grace¬ 
ful qualities that make for popularity. 

His mother went by, immensely fat, yet sitting 
her cart-horse firm as a rock. 

“The little dog had ’e by the nose proper that 
time, my great soft bullock,” she jeered, and rode 
on, laughing. She hated Eli; as master of Bosnia 
he kept her short of money, even going to the length 
of publicly crying down her credit. Had he not 
done so, they would have been ruined long since 
instead of in a fair state of prosperity, but Teresa 
took no count of that. She was never tired of in¬ 
forming audiences—preferably in Eli’s presence— 
that if her other son had been spared, her own 
precious boy Ortho, things would have been very 
different. He would not have seen her going in 
rags, without a penny piece to bless herself, not 
he. Time, in her memory, had washed away all 
the elder’s faults, leaving only virtues exposed, and 
those grossly exaggerated. She would dilate for 
hours on his good looks, his wit, his courage, his 
loving consideration for herself, breaking into hot 
tears of rage when she related the fancied indignities 
she suffered at the hands of the paragon’s unworthy 
brother. 

She was delighted that Polwhele had bested Eli, 
and rode home jingling her winnings on the event. 
Eli went on dressing, unmoved by his mother’s jibes. 


THE OWLS* HOUSE 


361 


As a boy he had learnt to close his ears to the taunts 
of Rusty Rufus, and he found the accomplishment 
most useful. When Teresa became abusive he either 
walked out of the house or closed up like an oyster 
and her tirades beat harmlessly against his spiritual 
shell. Words, words, nothing but words; his con¬ 
tempt for talk had not decreased as time went on. 

He pulled his belt up, hustled into his best blue 
coat and was knotting his neckcloth when somebody 
behind him said, “Well wrastled, Eli.’’ 

He turned and saw Mary Penaluna with old 
Simeon close beside. 

Eli shook his head. “He was smaller than I, 
naught but a little man. I take shame not to have 
beaten en.” 

But Mary would have none of it. “I see no 
shame then,” she said warmly. “They miners do 
nothing but wrastle, wrastle all day between shifts 
and underground too, so I’ve heard tell—but you’ve 
got other things to do, Eli; ’tis a wonder you stood 
up to en so long. And they’re nothing but a passed 
o’ tricksters, teddn what I do call fitty wrastling at 
all.” 

“Well, ’tis fair, anyhow,” said Eli; “Re beat me 
fair enough and there’s an end of it.” 

“ ’Es, s’pose,” Mary admitted, “but I do think 
you wrastled bravely, Eli, and so do father and 
all of the parish. Oh, look how the man knots 
his cloth, all twisted; you’m bad as father, I de¬ 
clare. Lave me put it to rights.” She reached up 


362 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


strong, capable hands, gave the neckerchief a pull 
and a pat and stood back laughing. “You men are 
no better than babies for all your size and cursing 
and ’bacca. ’Tis proper now. Are ’e steppin’ home 
along?’’ 

Eli was. They crossed the field and, turning their 
backs on the church tower, took the road towards 
the sea, old Simeon walking first, slightly bent with 
toil and rheumatism, long arms dangling inert; 
Mary and Eli followed side by side, speaking never 
a word. It was two miles to Roswarva, over up¬ 
land country, bare of trees, but beautiful in its 
wind-swept nakedness. Patches of dead bracken 
glowed with the warm copper that is to be found 
in some women’s hair; on gray bowlders spots of 
orange lichen shone like splashes of gold paint. The 
brambles were dressed like harlequins in ruby, green 
and yellow, and on nearly every hawthorn sat a 
pair of magpies, their black and white livery look¬ 
ing very smart against the scarlet berries. 

Eli walked on to Roswarva, although it was out 
of his way. He liked the low house among the 
stunted sycamores, with the sun in its face all day 
and the perpetual whisper of salt sea winds about 
it. He liked the bright display of flowers Mary 
seemed to keep going perennially in the little garden 
by the south door, the orderly kitchen with its 
sanded floor, clean whitewash and burnished copper. 
Bosnia was his home, but it was to Roswarva that 
he turned as to a haven in time of trouble, when 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


363 


he wanted advice about his farming, or when Teresa 
was particularly fractious. There was little said 
on these occasions, a few slow, considered words 
from Simeon, a welcoming smile from Mary, a cup 
of tea or-a mug of cider and then home again—^but 
he had got what he needed. 

He sat in the kitchen that afternoon twirling 
his hat in his powerful hands, staring out of the 
window and thinking that his worries were pretty 
nearly over. There was always Teresa to reckon 
with, but they were out of debt and Bosnia was in 
good farming shape at last. What next? An idea 
was taking shape in his deliberate brain. He stared 
out of the window, but not at the farm boar wal¬ 
lowing blissfully in the mire of the lane, or at Simeon 
driving his sleek cows in for milking, or at the blue 
Channel beyond with a little collier brig bearing 
up for the Lizard, her grimy canvas transformed 
by the alchemy of sunshine. Eli Penhale was see¬ 
ing visions, homely, comfortable visions. 

Mary came in, rolling her sleeves back over firm, 
rounded forearms dimpled at the elbows. The once 
leggy girl was leggy no longer, but a ripe, upstand¬ 
ing, full-breasted woman with kindly brown eyes 
and an understanding smile. 

“I’ll give ’e a penny for thy dream, Eli—if ’tis 
a pretty one,” she laughed. “Is it?” 

The farmer grinned. “Prettiest I ever had.” 

“Queen of England take you for her boy?” 

“Prettier than that.” 


364 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“My lor’, it must be worth a brear bit o’ money 
then! More’n I can afford.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Is it going cheap, or do you think I’m made of 
gold pieces?” 

“It’s not money I want.” 

“You’re not like most of us then,” said Mary, 
and started. “There’s father calling in the yard. 
Must be goin’ milkin’. Sit ’e down where ’e be and 
I’ll be back quick as quick and we’ll see if I can 
pay the price, whatever it is. Sit ’e down and rest.” 

But Eli had risen. “Must be going, I believe.” 

“Why?” 

“Got to see to the horses; I’ve let Bohenna and 
Davy off for the day, ’count of wrastling.” 

Mary pouted, but she was a farmer’s daughter, 
a fellow bond slave of animals; she recognized the 
necessity. 

“Anybody’d think it was your men had been 
wrastlin’ and not you, you great soft-heart. Oh, 
well, run along with ’e and come back when done 
and take a bite of supper with us, will ’e? Father’d 
be proud and I’ve fit a lovely supper.” 

Eli promised and betook himself homewards. 
Five strenuous bouts on top of six hours’ work in 
the morning had tired him somewhat, bruises were 
stiffening and his left shoulder gave him pain, but 
his heart, his heart was singing “Mary Penaluna— 
Mary Penhale, Mary Penaluna—Mary Penhale” all 
the way and his feet went wing-shod. Almost he 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


365 


had asked her in the kitchen, almost, almost—it 
had been tripping off his tongue when she mentioned 
her cows and in so doing reminded him of his horses. 
By blood, instinct and habit he was a farmer; the 
horses must be seen to first, his helpless, faithful 
servitors. His mother usually turned her mount 
into the stable without troubling to feed, unsaddle 
it or even ease the girths. The horses must be 
seen to. 

He would say the word that evening after supper 
when old Simeon fell asleep in his rocker, as was 
his invariable custom. That very evening. 

Tregors had gone whistling down the wind long 
since; the unknown hind from Burdock Water had 
let it go to rack and ruin, a second mortgagee was 
not forthcoming, Carveth Donnithorne foreclosed 
and marched in. Tregors had gone, but Bosula 
remained, clear of debt and as good a place as any 
in the Hundred, enough for any one man. Eli felt 
he could make his claim for even prosperous Simeon 
Penaluna’s daughter with a clear conscience. He 
came to the rim of the valley, hoisted himself to 
the top of a bank, paused and sat down. 

The valley, touched by the low rays of sunset, 
foamed with gold, with the pale gold of autumnal 
elms, the bright gold of ashes, the old gold of oaks. 

Bosula among its enfolding woods I No Roman 
emperor behind his tall Praetorians had so steadfast, 
so splendid a guard as these. Shelter from the 
winter gales, great spluttering logs for the hearth. 


366 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


green shade in summer and in autumn this magnifi¬ 
cence. Holly for Christmas, apples and cider. The 
apples were falling now, falling with soft thuds all 
day and night and littering the orchard, sunk in the 
grass like rosy-faced children playing hide and seek. 

Eli’s eyes ran up the opposite hillside, a patch- 
work quilt of trim fields, green pasture and brown 
plow land, all good and all his. 

His heart went out in gratitude to the house of 
his breed, to the sturdy men who had made it what 
it was, to the first poor ragged tinner wandering 
down the valley with his donkey, to his unknown 
father, that honest giant with the shattered face 
who had brought him into the world that he, in 
his turn, might take up this goodly heritage. 

It should go on. He saw into the future, a 
brighter, better future. He saw flowers outside the 
Owls’ House perennially blooming; saw a white¬ 
washed kitchen with burnished copper pans and a 
woman in it smiling welcome at the day’s end, her 
sleeves rolled up to show her dimpled elbows; saw 
a pack of brown-eyed chubby little boys tumbling 
noisily in to supper—Penhales of Bosula. It should 
go on. He vaulted off the bank and strode whistling 
down to the Owls’ House, bowed his head between 
Adam and Eve and found Ortho sitting in the 
kitchen. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


T he return of Ortho Penhale, nearly seven 
years after his supposed death, caused a sen¬ 
sation in West Cornwall. The smuggling 
affair at Monks Cove was remembered and exag¬ 
gerated out of all semblance to the truth. Millions 
of gallons had been run through by Ortho and his 
gang, culminating in a pitched battle with the 
dragoons. Nobody could say how many were killed 
in that affray, and it was affirmed that nobody ever 
would know. Midnight buryings were hinted at, 
hush money and so on; a dark, thrilling business 
altogether. Ortho was spoken of in the same breath 
as King Nick and other celebrities of the “Trade.” 
His subsequent adventures lost nothing in the 
mouths of the gossips. He had landed in Barbary 
a slave and in the space of two years become a 
general. The Sultan’s favorite queen fell in love 
with him; on being discovered in her arms he had 
escaped by swimming four miles out to sea and 
intercepting an East Indiaman, in which vessel he 
had visited India and seen the Great Mogul. 

Ortho discovered himself a personage. It was 
a most agreeable sensation. Men in every walk of 
life rushed to shake his hand. He found himself 
sitting in Penzance taverns in the exalted company 
367 


368 


n’HE OWLS’ HOUSE 


of magistrates and other notables telling the story 
of his adventures—with picturesque additions. 

And the women. Even the fine ladies in Chapel 
Street turned their proud heads when he limped by. 
His limp was genuine to a point; but when he saw 
a pretty woman ahead he improved on it to draw 
sympathy and felt their softened eyes following him 
on his way, heard them whisper,-“Ortho Penhale, 
my dear . . . general in Barbary . . . twelve times 
wounded. . . . How pale he looks and how hand¬ 
some !” 

A most agreeable sensation. 

To insure that he should not pass unnoticed he 
affected a slight eccentricity of attire. For him no 
more the buff breeches, the raffish black and silver 
coats; dressed thus he might have passed for any 
squire. 

He wore instead the white trousers of a sailor, 
a marine’s scarlet tunic he had picked up in a junk 
shop, a colored kerchief loosely knotted about his 
throat, and on his bull curls the round fur cap of 
the sea. There was no mistaking him. Small boys 
followed him In packs, round-eyed, worshipful. . . . 
“Ortho Penhale, smuggler. Barbary lancer!” 

If he had been popular once he was doubly pop¬ 
ular now. The Monks Cove incident was forgiven 
but not forgotten; It went to swell his credit, in fact. 
To have arrested him on that old score would have 
been more than the Collector’s life was worth. The 
Collector, prudent man, publicly shook Penhale by 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 369 

the hand and congratulated him on his miraculous 
escape. 

Ortho found his hoard of six hundred and seventy 
pounds intact in the hollow ash by Tumble Down 
and spent it freely. He gave fifty pounds to An¬ 
son’s widow (who had married a prosperous cousin 
some years before, forgotten poor Anson and did 
not need it) and put a further fifty in his pockets 
to give to Tamsin Eva. 

Bohenna told him the story as a joke, but Ortho 
was smitten with what he imagined was remorse. 

He remembered Tamsin—a slim, appealing little 
thing in blue, skin like milk and a cascade of red 
gold hair. He must make some honorable gesture 
—there were certain obligations attached to the role 
of local hero. It was undoubtedly somewhat late 
in the day. The Trevaskis lout had married the 
girl and accepted the paternity of the child (it was 
a boy six years old now, Bohenna reported), but 
that made no difference; he must make his gesture. 
Fifty pounds was a lot of money to a struggling 
farmer; besides he would like to see Tamsin again 
—that slender neck and marvelous hair! If Trevas¬ 
kis wasn’t treating her properly he’d take her away 
from him, boy and all; b’God, he would! 

He went up to the Trevaskis homestead one 
afternoon and saw a meager woman standing at the 
back of a small house washing clothes in a tub. 
Her thin forearms were red with work, her hair 
was screwed up anyhow on the top of her head and 


370 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


hung over her eyes in draggled rat’s-tails, her com¬ 
plexion had faded through long standing over 
kitchen fires, her apron was torn and her thick wool 
socks were thrust into a pair of clumsy men’s boots. 

It was some seconds before he recognized her as 
Tamsin. Tamsin after seven years as a working 
man’s wife. A couple of dirty children of about 
four and five were making mud pies at her feet, 
and in the cottage a baby lifted its querulous voice. 

She had other children then—two, three, half a 
dozen perhaps—huh! 

Ortho turned about and limped softly away, un¬ 
noticed, the fifty pounds still in his pockets. 

Making amends to a pretty woman was one thing, 
but to a faded drudge with a school of Trevaskis 
bantlings quite another suit of clothes. 

He gave the fifty pounds to his mother, took her 
to Penzance and bought her two flamboyant new 
dresses and a massive gold brooch. She adored him. 
The hard times, scratching a penny here and there 
out of Eli, were gone forever. Her handsome, free¬ 
handed son was back again, master of Bosnia and 
darling of the district. She rode everywhere with 
him, to hurling matches, bull baitings, races and 
cock-fights, big with pride, chanting his praises to 
all comers. 

“That Eli would have seen me starve to death 
in a ditch,” she would say, buttonholing some old 
crony in a tavern. “But Ortho’s got respect for his 
old mother; he’d give me the coat off his back or 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


371 


the heart out of his breast, he would, so help me!” 
(Hiccough.) 

Mother and son rode together all over the Hun¬ 
dred, Teresa wreathed in fat, splendid in attire, 
still imposing in her virile bulk; Ortho in his scarlet 
tunic, laughing, gambling, dispensing free liquor, 
telling amazing stories. Eli stayed at home, work¬ 
ing on the farm, bewildered, dumb, the look In his 
eyes of a suffering dog. 

Christmas passed more merrily than ever before 
at the Owls’ House that year. Half Gwithlan was 
present and two fiddlers. Some danced In the 
kitchen, the overflow danced In the barn, profusely 
decorated with evergreens for the occasion so that 
it had the appearance of a candlelit glade. Few 
of the men went to bed at all that night and, with 
the exception of EH, none sober. Twelfth Night 
was celebrated with a similar outburst, and then 
people settled down to work again and Ortho found 
himself at a loose end. He could always ride into 
Penzance and pass the time of day with the Idlers 
in the “Star,” but that was not to his taste. He 
drank little himself and disliked the company. Fur¬ 
thermore, he had told most of his tales and was in 
danger of repeating them. 

Ortho was wise enough to see that If he were 
not careful he would degenerate from the local hero 
Into the local bore—and gave Penzance a rest. 
There appeared to be nothing for It but that he 
should get down to work on the farm; after his last 


372 


THE OWLS^ HOUSE 


eight years it was an anti-dimax which presented 
few allurements. 

Before long there would be no excuse for idleness. 
The Kiddlywink in Monks Cove saw him most eve¬ 
nings talking blood and thunder with Jacky’s George. 
He lay abed late of a morning and limped about 
the cliffs on fine afternoons. 

The Luddra Head was his favorite haunt; from 
its crest he could see from the Lizard Point to 
the Logan Rock, some twenty miles east and west, 
and keep an eye on the shipping. He would watch 
the Mount’s Bay fishing fleets flocking out to their 
grounds; the Welsh collier brigs racing up-channel 
jib-boom and jib-boom; mail packets crowding all 
sail for open sea; a big blue-water merchantman 
rolling home from the world’s ends, or a smart 
frigate logging nine knots on a bowline, tossing the 
spray over her fo’csle in clouds. He would criti¬ 
cize their handling, their rigs, make guesses as to 
their destinations and business. 

It was comfortable up on the Head, a slab of 
granite at one’s back, a springy cushion of turf to 
sit upon, the winter sunshine warming the rocks, 
pouring all over one. 

One afternoon he climbed the Head to find a 
woman sitting in his particular spot. He cursed 
her under his breath, turned away and then turned 
back again. Might as well see what sort of woman 
it was before he went; you never knew. He crawled 
up the rocks, came out upon the granite platform 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


373 


pretending he had not noticed the intruder, executed 
a realistic start of surprise, and said, “Good morn¬ 
ing to you.” 

“Good afternoon,” the girl replied. 

Ortho accepted the correction and remarked that 
the weather was fine. 

The girl did not contest the obvious and went on 
with her work, which was knitting. 

Ortho looked her all over and was glad he had 
not turned back. A good-looking wench this, tall 
yet well formed, with a strong white neck, a fresh 
complexion and pleasant brown eyes. He wondered 
where she lived. Gwithian parish? She had not 
come to his Christmas and Twelfth Night parties. 

He sat down on a rock facing her. “My leg,” 
he explained; “must rest it.” 

She made no remark, which he thought unkind; 
she might have shown some interest in his leg. 

“Got wounded in the leg in Barbary.” 

The girl looked up. “What’s that?” 

Ortho reeled slightly. Was it possible there was 
anybody in England, in the wide world, who did 
not know where Barbary was? 

“North coast of Africa, of course,” he retorted. 

The girl nodded. “Oh, ’es, I believe I have 
heard father tell of it. Dutch colony, isn’t it?” 

“No,” Ortho barked. 

The girl went imperturbably on with her knitting. 
Her shocking ignorance did not appear to worry 
her in the least; she did not ask Ortho for enlighten- 


374 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


ment and he did not feel like starting the subject 
again. The conversation came to a full stop. 

The girl was a ninny, Ortho decided; a feather- 
headed country ninny—yet remarkably'good looking 
for all that. He admired the fine shape of her 
shoulders under the blue cloak, the thick curls of 
glossy brown hair that escaped from her hood, and 
those fresh cheeks; one did not find complexions 
like that anywhere else but here in the wet south¬ 
west. He had an idea that a dimple would appear 
in one of those cheeks if she laughed, perhaps in 
both. He felt he must make the ninny dimple. 

“Live about here?” he inquired. 

She nodded. 

“So do I.” 

No reply; she was not interested in where he 
lived, drat her! He supplied the information. “I 
live at Bosnia in the valley; I’m Ortho Pen- 
hale.” 

The girl did not receive this enthralling intelli¬ 
gence with proper emotion. She looked at him 
calmly and said, “Penhale of Bosnia, are ’e? Then 
I s’pose you’m connected with Eli?” 

Once more Ortho staggered. That any one in 
the Penwith Hundred should be in doubt as to who 
he was, the local hero! To be known only as Eli’s 
brother! It was too much! But he bit his lip and 
explained his relationship to Eli in a level voice. 
The ninny was even a bigger fool than he had 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


375 


thought, but dimple she should. The conversation 
came to a second full stop. 

Two hundred feet below them waves draped the 
Luddra ledges with shining foam cloths, poured 
back, the crannies dribbling as with milk, and 
launched themselves afresh. A subdued booming 
traveled upwards, died away in a long-drawn sigh, 
then the boom again. Great mile-long stripes and 
ribbons of foam outlined the coast, twisted by the 
tides into strange patterns and arabesques, creamy 
white upon dark blue. Jackdaws darted in and 
out of holes in the cliff-side and gulls swept and 
hovered on invisible air currents, crying mourn¬ 
fully. In a bed of campions, just above the toss of 
the breakers, a red dog fox lay curled up asleep 
in the sun. 

“Come up here often?” Ortho inquired, restart¬ 
ing the one-sided conversation. 

“No.” 

“Ahem!—I do; I come up here to look at the 
ships.” 

The girl glanced at him, a mischievous sparkle 
in her brown eyes. “Then wouldn’t you see the 
poor dears better if you was to turn and face ’em, 
Squire Penhale?” 

She folded her knitting, stood up and walked 
away without another word. 

Ortho arose also. She had had him there. Not 
such a fool after all, and she had dimpled when she 


376 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


made that sally—^just a wink of a dimple, but en¬ 
trancing. He had a suspicion she had been laughing 
at him, knew who he was all the time, else why had 
she called him “Squire” ? 

By the Lord, laughing at him, was she? That 
was a new sensation for the local hero. He flushed 
with anger. Blast the girl! But she was a damned 
handsome piece for all that. He watched her 
through a peep-hole in the rocks, watched her cross 
the neck of land, pass the earth ramparts of the 
Luddra’s prehistoric inhabitants and turn left- 
handed along the coast path. Then, when she was 
committed to her direction, he made after her as 
fast as he was capable. Despite his wound he was 
capable of considerable speed, but the girl set him 
all the pace he needed. 

She was no featherweight, but she skipped and 
ran along the craggy path as lightly as a hind. 
Ortho labored in the rear, grunting in admiration. 

Catch her he could not; it was all he could do 
to keep her in sight. Where a small stream went 
down to the sea through a tangle of thorn and 
bramble she gave him the slip. 

He missed the path altogether, went up to his 
knees in a bog hole and got his smart white trousers 
in a mess. Ten minutes it took him to work through 
that tangle, and when he came out on the far side 
there was no sign of the girl. He cursed her, 
damned himself for a fool, swore he was going back 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


377 

—and limped on. She must live close at hand; he’d 
try ahead for another mile and then give it up. 

Within half a mile he came upon Roswarva stand¬ 
ing among its stunted sycamores. 

He limped up to the door and rapped it with 
his stick. Simeon Penaluna came out. Ortho 
greeted him with warmth; but lately back from for¬ 
eign parts he thought he really must come and see 
how his good neighbor was faring. Simeon was 
surprised; it was the first time the elder Penhale 
had been to the house. This sudden solicitude for 
his welfare was unlooked for. 

He said he was not doing as badly as he might 
be and asked the visitor in. 

The visitor accepted, would just sit down for a 
moment or two and rest a bit . . . his wounds, you 
know. . . . 

A moment or two extended to an hour. Ortho 
was convinced the girl was somewhere about—there 
were no other houses in the neighborhood—and, 
now he came to remember, Penaluna had had a 
daughter in the old days, an awkward child, all legs 
like a foal; the same girl, doubtless. She would 
have to show up sooner or later. He talked and 
talked, and talked himself into an invitation to sup¬ 
per. His persistency was rewarded; the girl he had 
met on the cliffs brought the supper in and Simeon 
introduced her as his daughter Mary. Not by a 
flicker of an eyelash did she show that she had ever 


378 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

seen Ortho before, but curtsied to him as grave as 
a church image. 

It was ten o’clock before Ortho took his way 
homewards. He had not done so badly, he thought. 
Mary Penaluna might pretend to take no interest 
in his travels, but he had managed to hold Simeon’s 
ears fast enough. 

The grim farmer had laughed till the tears started 
at Ortho’s descriptions of the antics of the negro 
soldiers after the looting at Figvig and the equa¬ 
torial mummery on board the Indiaman. 

Mary Penaluna might pretend not to be inter¬ 
ested, but he knew better. Once or twice, watching 
her out of the tail of his eye, he had seen her lips 
twitch and part. He could tell a good story, and 
knew it. In soldier camps and on shipboard he^ 
had always held his sophisticated audiences at his 
tongue’s tip; it would be surprising if he could not 
charm a simple farm girl. 

More than ever he admired her—the soft glow 
on her brown hair as she sat sewing, her broad, 
efficient hands, the bountiful curves of her. And 
ecod! in what excellent order she kept the house 1 
That was the sort of wife for a farmer. 

And he was a farmer now. Why, yes, certainly. 
He would start work the very next day. 

This wandering was all very well while one was 
young, but he was getting on for thirty and holed 
all over with wounds, five to be precise. He’d marry 
that girl, settle down and prosper. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


379 


As he walked home he planned it all out. His 
mother should stop at Bosula of course, but she’d 
have to understand that Mary was mistress. Not 
that that would disturb Teresa to any extent; she 
detested housekeeping and would be glad to have it 
off her hands. Then there was Eli, good old 
brother, best farmer in the duchy. Eli was welcome 
to stop too and share all profits. Ortho hoped that 
he would stop, but he had noticed that Eli had been 
very silent and strange since his home-coming and 
was not sure of him—might be wanting to marry 
as well and branch out for himself. Tregors had 
gone, but there was over four hundred pounds of 
that smuggling money remaining, and if Eli wanted 
to set up for himself he should have every penny 
of it to start him, every blessed penny—it was not 
more than his due, dear old lad. 

As soon as Mary accepted him—and he didn’t 
expect her to take more than a week in making up 
her mind—^he’d hand the money over to Eli with 
his blessing. Before he reached home that night he 
had settled everybody’s affairs to his own satisfac¬ 
tion and their advantage. Ortho was in a generous 
mood, being hotly in love again. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


T eresa rode out of Gwithlan in a black 
temper. Three days before, in another fit 
of temper, she had packed the house-girl 
from Bosula, bag and baggage, and she was finding 
it difficult to get another. For two days she had 
been canvassing the farms in vain, and now Gwithian 
had proved a blank draw. She could not herself 
cook, and the Bosula household was living on cold 
odds and ends, a diet which set the men grumbling 
and filled her with disgust. She pined for the good 
times when Martha was alive and three smoking 
meals came up daily as a matter of course. 

Despite the fact that she offered the best wages 
in the neighborhood, the girls would not look at 
her—saucy jades! Had she inquired she would 
have learnt that, as a mistress, she was reported 
too free with her tongue and fists. 

Gwithian fruitless, there was nothing for it but 
to try Mousehole. Teresa twisted her big horse 
about and set off forthwith for the fishing village 
in the hopes of picking up some crabber’s wench who 
could handle a basting pan—it was still early in the 
morning. A cook she must get by hook or crook; 
Ortho was growling a great deal at his meals—her 
precious Ortho! 

She was uneasy about her precious Ortho; his 
380 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


381 


courtship of the Penaluna girl was not progressing 
favorably. He had not mentioned the affair, but 
to his doting mother all was plain as daylight. She 
knew perfectly well where he spent his evenings, and 
she knew as well as if he had told her that he was 
making no headway. Men successful in love do not 
flare like tinder at any tiny mishap, sigh and brood 
apart in corners, come stumbling to bed at night 
damning the door latches for not springing to meet 
their hands, the stairs for tripping them up; do not 
publicly, and apropos of nothing, curse all women 
—meaning one particular woman. Oh, no. Ortho 
was beating up against a head wind. 

Teresa was furious with the Penaluna hussy for 
presuming to withstand her son. She had looked 
higher for Ortho than a mere farmer’s daughter; 
but, since the farmer’s daughter did not instantly 
succumb, Teresa was determined Ortho should have 
her—the haughty baggage! 

After all Simeon owned the adjacent property 
and was undeniably well to do. The girl had looks 
of a sort (though the widow, being enormous her¬ 
self, did not generally admire big women) and was 
reported a good housewife; that would solve the 
domestic difficulty. But the main thing was that 
Ortho wanted the chit, therefore he should have her. 

Wondering how quickest this could be contrived, 
she turned a corner of the lane and came upon the 
girl in question walking into Gwithian, a basket on 
her arm, her blue cloak blowing in the wind. 


382 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Teresa jerked her horse up, growling, “Good 
morning.” 

“Good morning,” Mary replied and walked past. 

Teresa scowled after her and shouted, “Hold fast 
a minute!” 

Mary turned about. “Well?” 

“What whimsy tricks are you serving my boy 
Ortho?” said Teresa, who was nothing if not to the 
point. 

Mary’s eyebrows rose. “What do ’e mean, 
‘whimsy tricks’? I do serve en a fitty supper nigh 
every evening of his life and listen to his tales 
till . . 

“Oh, you know what I mean well enough,” Teresa 
roared. “Are ’e goin’ to have him? That’s what 
I want to know.” 

“Have who?” 

“My son.” 

“Which son?” The two women faced each other 
for a moment, the black eyes wide with surprise, 
the brown sparkling with amusement; then Mary 
dropped a quick curtsey and disappeared round the 
corner. 

Teresa sat still for some minutes glaring after 
her, mouth sagging with astonishment. Then she 
cursed sharply; then she laughed aloud; then, catch¬ 
ing her horse a vicious smack with the rein, she 
rode on. The feather-headed fool preferred Eli 
to Ortho! Preferred that slow-brained hunk of 
brawn and solemnity to Ortho, the handsome, the 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


383 


brilliant, the daring, the sum of manly virtues I It 
was too funny, too utterly ridiculous! Eli, the clod, 
preferred to Ortho, the diamond! The girl was 
raving mad, raving! Eli had visited Roswarva a 
good deal at one time, but not since Ortho’s return. 
Teresa hoped the girl was aware that Ortho was 
absolute owner of Bosnia and that Eli had not a 
penny to his name—now. If she were not, Teresa 
determined she should not long go in ignorance. 

At any rate, it could only be a question of time. 
Mary might still have some friendly feeling for Eli, 
but once she really began to know Ortho she would 
forget all about that. Half the women in the coun¬ 
try would give their heads to get the romantic squire 
of Bosnia; they went sighing after him in troops 
at fairs and public occasions. Yet something in the 
Penaluna girl’s firm jaw and steady brown eyes told 
Teresa that she was not easily swayed hither and 
thither. She wished she could get Eli out of the 
way for a bit. 

She rode over the hill and down the steep lane 
into Mousehole, and there found an unwonted stir 
afoot. 

The village was full of seamen armed with 
bludgeons and cutlasses, running up and down the 
narrow alleys in small parties, kicking the doors in 
and searching the houses. 

The fisherwomen hung out of their windows and 
flung jeers and slops at them. 

“Press gang,” Teresa was informed. They had 


384 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


landed from a frigate anchored just round the 
corner in Gwavas Lake and had so far caught one 
sound man, one epileptic and the village idiot, who 
was vastly pleased at having some one take notice 
of him at last. 

A boy line fishing off Tavis Vov had seen the 
gang rowing in, given the alarm, and by the time 
the sailors arrived all the men were a quarter of a 
mile inland. Very amusing, eh? Teresa agreed 
that it was indeed most humorous, and added her 
shrewd taunts to those of the fishwives. 

Then an idea sprang to her head. She went into 
the tavern and drank a pot of ale while thinking 
it over. When the smallest detail was complete she 
set out to find the officer in command. 

She found him without difficulty—an elderly and 
dejected midshipman leaning over the slip rails, 
spitting into the murky waters of the harbor, and 
invited him very civilly to take a nip of brandy with 
her. 

The officer accepted without question. A nip of 
brandy was a nip of brandy, and his stomach was 
out of order, consequent on his having supped off 
rancid pork the night before. Teresa led him to a 
private room in the tavern, ordered the drinks and, 
when they arrived, locked the door. 

“Look ’e, captain,” said she, “do ’e want to make 
a couple of guineas ?” 

The midshipman’s dull glance leapt to meet hers, 
agleam with sudden interest, as Teresa surmised it 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


385 


would. She knew the type—forty years old, with¬ 
out influence or hope of promotion, disillusioned, 
shabby, hanging body and soul together on thirty 
shillings a month; there was little this creature 
would not do for two pounds down. 

“What is it?” he snapped. 

“I’ll give you two pounds and a good sound man 
—if you’ll fetch en.” 

The midshipman shook his tarred hat. “Not in¬ 
land; I won’t go inland.” Press gangs were not 
safe inland in Cornwall and he was not selling his 
life for forty shillings; it was a dirty life; but he 
still had some small affection for it. 

“Who said it was inland? To a small little cove 
just this side of Monks Cove; you’ll know it by 
the waterfall that do come down over cliff there. 
T’eddn more’n a two-mile pull from here, just round 
the point.” 

“Is the man there?” 

“Not yet, but I’ll have en there by dusk. Do 
you pull your boat up on the little beach and step 
inside the old tinner’s adit—kind of little cave on 
the east side—and wait there till he comes. He’s a 
mighty strong man, I warn ’e, a notable wrestler in 
these parts, so be careful.” 

“I’ll take four of my best and sand-bag him from 
behind,” said the midshipman, who was an expert 
in these matters. “Stiffens ’em, but don’t kill. Two 
pound ain’t enough, though.” 

“It’s all you’ll get,” said Teresa. 


386 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

“Four pound or nothing,” said the midshipman 
firmly. 

They compromised at three pounds and Teresa 
paid cash on the spot. Ortho, the free-handed, kept 
her in plenty of money—so different from Eli. 

The midshipman walked out of the front door, 
Teresa slipped out of the back and rode away. She 
had little fear the midshipman would fail her; he 
had her money, to be sure, but he would also get 
a bounty on Eli and partly save his face with his 
captain. He would be there right enough. 

She continued her search for a cook in Paul and 
rode home slowly to gain time, turned her horse, as 
usual, all standing, into the stable, and then went 
to look for her younger son. 

She was not long in finding him; a noise of ham¬ 
mering disclosed his whereabouts. 

She approached in a flutter of well-simulated ex¬ 
citement. 

“Here you, Eli, Eli!” she called. 

“What is it?” he asked, never pausing in his 
work. 

“I’ve just come round by the cliffs from Mouse- 
hole; there’s a good ship’s boat washed up in Zawn- 
a-Bal. Get you round there quick and take her into 
Monks Cove; she’m worth five pounds if she’m 
worth a penny.” 

Eli looked up. “Hey! . . . What sort of boat?” 

“Gig, I think; she’m lying on the sand by the side 
of the adit.” 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


387 


Eli whistled. “Gig—eh I All right, I’ll get 

down there soon’s I’ve finished this.” 

Teresa stamped her foot. “Some o’ they Mouse- 
hole or Cove men’ll find her if you don’t stir your¬ 
self.” 

Eli nodded. “All right, all right, I’m going. I’m 
not for throwing away a good boat any more’n you 
are. Just let me finish this gate. I shan’t be a 
minute.” 

Teresa turned away. He would go—and there 
was over an hour to spare—he would go fast 
enough, go blindly to his fate. She turned up the 
valley with a feeling that she would like to be as 
far from the dark scene of action as possible. But 
it would not do Eli any harm, she told herself; he 
was not being murdered; he was going to serve in 
the Navy for a little while as tens of thousands of 
men were doing. Every sailor was not killed, only 
a small percentage. No harm would come to him; 
good, rather. He would see the world and enlarge 
his mind. In reality she was doing him a service. 

Nevertheless her nerves were jumping uncomfort¬ 
ably. Eli was her own flesh and blood after all, 
John’s son. What would John, in heaven, say to all 
this? She had grasped the marvelous opportunity 
of getting rid of Eli without thinking of the conse¬ 
quences ; she was an opportunist by blood and train¬ 
ing, could not help herself. 

Well, it was done now; there was no going back 
—and it would clear the way for Ortho. 


388 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


Yet she could not rid herself of a vision of the 
evil midshipman crouching In the adit with his four 
manhandlers and sand-bags waiting, waiting, and 
EH striding towards them through the dusk, whis¬ 
tling, all unconscious. She began to blubber softly, 
but she did not go home; she waddled on up the val¬ 
ley, sniffling, blundering Into trees, blinking the tears 
back, talking to herself, telling John, In heaven, that 
it was all for the best. She would not go back to 
Bosnia till after dark, till It was all over. 


EH strapped the blankets on more firmly, kicked 
the straw up round the horse’s belly, picked up the 
oil bottle and stood back. 

“Think he’ll do now,” he said. 

Bohenna nodded. “ ’Es, but ’twas a mercy I 
catched you in time, gived me a fair fright when I 
found en.” 

“I’ll get Ortho to speak to mother,” EH said. 
“ ’Tisn’t her fault the horse Isn’t dead. Here, take 
this bottle in with you.” 

Bohenna departed. 

EH piled up some more straw and cleared the 
manger out. A shadow fell across the litter. 

“Might mix a small mash for him,” he said with¬ 
out looking round. 

“Mash for who?” a voice Inquired. EH turned 
about and saw not Bohenna but Simeon Penaluna 
dressed In his best. 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


389 


“Been to market,” Simeon explained; “looked in 
on the way back. What have you got here?” 

“Horse down with colic. Mother turned him 
loose into the stable, corn bin was open, he ate his 
fill and then had a good drink at the trough. I’ve 
had a proper job with him.” 

“All right now, eddn ’a?” 

“Yes, r think so.” 

Simeon shuffled his expansive feet. “Don’t see 
much of you up to Roswarva these days.” 

“No.” 

More shufflings. “We do brearly miss ’e.” 

“That so?” 

Simeon cleared his throat. “My maid asked ’e 
to supper some three months back . . . well, if you 
don’t come up soon it’ll be getting cold like.” 

There was an uncomfortable pause; then Eli 
looked up steadily. “I want you to understand, Sim, 
that things aren’t the same with me as they were 
now Ortho’s come home. My father died too sud¬ 
den; he didn’t leave a thing to me. I’m nothing but 
a beggar now. Ortho . . .” 

The gaunt slab of hair and wrinkles that was 
Simeon’s face split into a smile. 

“Here, for gracious sake, don’t speak upon 
Ortho; he’s pretty nigh talked me deaf and dumb 
night after night of how he was a king in Barbary 
and what not and so forth . . . clunk, clunk, 
clunk! In the Lord’s name do you come up and 
let’s have a little sociable silence for a change.” 


390 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


“Do you mean it?” Eli gasped. 

“Mean it,” said Simeon, laying a hairy paw on 
his shoulder. “Did you ever hear me or my maid 
say a word we didn’t mean—son?” 

Eli rushed across the yard and into the house 
to fetch his best coat. 

Teresa was standing in front of the fire, hands 
outstretched, shivering despite the blaze. 

She reeled when her son went bounding past her, 
reeled as though she had seen a ghost. 

“Eli! My God, Eli!” she cried. “What—how 
—where you been?” 

“In the stable physicking your horse,” he said, 
climbing the stairs. “I sent Ortho after that boat.” 

He did not hear the crash his mother made as 
she fell; he was in too much of a hurry. 


Ortho climbed the forward ladder and came out 
on the upper deck. The ship was thrashing along 
under all plain sail, braced sharp up. 

The sky was covered with torn fleeces of cloud, 
but blue patches gleamed through the rents, and 
the ship leapt forward lit by a beam of sunshine, 
white pinioned, a clean bone in her teeth. A rain 
storm had just passed over, drenching her, and every 
rope and spar was outlined with glittering beads; 
the wet deck shone like a plaque of silver. Cheerily 
sang the wind in the shrouds, the weather leeches 
quivered, the reef points pattered impatient fingers, 


THE OWLS’ HOUSE 


391 


and under Ortho’s feet the frigate trembled like an 
eager horse reaching for its bit. 

“She’s snorting the water from her nostrils, all 
right,” he said approvingly. “Step on, lady.” 

So he was aboardship again. How he had come 
there he didn’t know. He remembered nothing 
after reaching Zawn-a-Bal Cove and trying to push 
that boat off. His head gave an uncomfortable 
throb. Ah, that was it! He had been knocked on 
the head—press gang. 

Well, he had lost that damned girl, he supposed. 
No matter, there were plenty more, and being mar¬ 
ried to one rather hampered you with the others. 
Life on the farm would have been unutterably dull 
really. He was not yet thirty; a year or two more 
roving would do no harm. His head gave another 
throb and he put his hand to his brow. 

A man polishing the ship’s bell noted the gesture 
and laughed. “Peelin’ sick, me bold farmer? How 
d’you think you’ll like the sea?” 

“Farmer!” Ortho snarled. “Hell’s bells, I was 
upper yard man of the Elijah Impey^ pick of the 
Indies fleet!” 

“Was you, begod?” said the polisher, a note of 
respect in his voice. 

“Aye, that I was. Say, mate, what packet is 
this?” 

^'Triton, frigate, Captain Charles Mulholland.” 

“Good bully?” 

“The best.” 


392 THE OWLS’ HOUSE 

“She seems to handle pretty kind,” said Ortho, , 
glancing aloft. 

“Kind!” said the man, with enthusiasm. “She’ll ; 
eat out of your hand, she’ll talk to you.” | 

“Aha! . . . Know where we’re bound?” 

“West Indies, I’ve heard.” ; 

“West Indies!” Ortho had a picture of peacock 1 
islands basking in coral seas, of odorous green jun- ; 
gles, fruit-laden, festooned with ropes of flowers; 
of gaudy painted parrots preening themselves among 
the tree ferns; of black girls, heroically molded, , 
flashing their white teeth at him. ... ■ 

West Indies! He drew a deep breath. Well, ] 
at all events, that was something new. 


FINIS 





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